Mendota
by Sierra Nichole
Summary: COMPLETED. Set directly after Bedtime Stories; Dean and Sam travel to Wisconsin to hunt down the spirit of perhaps the most infamous killer in U.S. history but Sam has other reasons for being there as well. RATED M FOR DISTURBING IMAGES, GORE AND VIOLENCE
1. Prologue

**Title: Mendota**

**Author: Sierra Crane**

**Rated: M for Violence, Gore, and Language**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Supernatural **_**or any of****the characters created in that show. I do own Dr. Grace Myers.**

**Summary: Dean and Sam head to Wisconsin in order to put a stop to the spirit of perhaps the most infamous murderer in U.S history. But what kind of dangers await them? Will they survive?**

**A/N: Even though it's stated in the rating, I thought I'd add an extra warning: This story will have lots of gore, and disturbing images. If that kind of thing bothers you, either try to skip over those parts, or just don't read. **

**Also, thanks to my beta Mary T., you're the best, girl:)**

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_Prologue_

_September, 1919_

" . . .the man, the master of the house, went out to them and said to them: 'No, my brethren! I beg you, do not act so wickedly! Seeing this man has come into my house, do not commit this outrage'.

"'Look, here is my virgin daughter and the man's concubine; let me bring them out no. Humble them, and do with them as you please; but to this man do not do such a vile thing!'

"But the men would not heed him. So the man took his concubine and brought her out to them. And they knew her all night until morning; and when the day began to break, they let her go. Then the woman came as the day was dawning, and fell down at the door of the man's house where her master was, till it was light.

"When her master arose in the morning, and opened the doors of the house and went out to go his way, there was his concubine, fallen at the door of the house with her hands on the threshold. And he said to her: 'Get up and let us be going.' But there was no answer. So the man lifted her onto the donkey; and the man got up and went to his place.

"When he entered his house he took a knife, laid hold of his concubine, and divided her into twelve pieces, limb by limb, and sent her throughout all the territories of Israel. And so it was that all who saw it said, 'No such deed has been done or seen from the day that the children of Israel came up from the land of Egypt until this day. Consider it, confer, and speak up!"

Augusta's piercing eyes gazed down at her young son as he sat on the wood floor and stared up at her curiously, Ed was barely twelve years of age, but always took an avid interest when the time came for his mother to read passages from the Bible to him. Unlike his 18-year-old brother, Henry, who sat in a chair across from the fireplace and stared into the flames, completely dispassionate and uninterested.

"Henry!"

Augusta's shrill voice seemed to break into the elder brother's thoughts and he jerked his blue eyes in her direction.

"Were you paying any attention, son?" Augusta questioned, raising one eyebrow slowly.

"Of course, Mother." Henry nodded, risking looking away from his mother---but only for a brief moment. "They killed the whore. Chopped her into bits. Sent her around the country."

Augusta's eyes flashed. But her son was right. "Yes," she said, her voice steely and cold. "Women are vile creatures and worthy only of receiving the worst kind of punishment imaginable. Hellfire. Isn't that right, Eddie?" She looked down at her youngest again, her expression softening slightly.

"Yes, Mother," Ed said obediently, silenty cursing his brother for his insubordination. How dare he be so defiant of their precious mother!? Climbing to his feet, he placed a gentle kiss on his mother's weathered cheek. "Would you like a glass of water?"

"Yes, thank you." Augusta smiled. Her youngest was, indeed, the son she had prayed for when she first married George.

The mere thought of her drunkard husband brought a scowl to her haggard face, and when the sound of the backdoor slammed shut and she heard George's feet scuffing the floors, she muttered under her breath an obscenity she would never say loud enough for her boys to hear. She stood from her chair and met the drunken man in the doorway, unafraid and demanding as she spoke: "Did you find work today?"

George grinned a nearly toothless smile. "Didna' think to look!" he slurred, stumbling past his furious wife to slump into the chair she'd been sitting in before, only to be greeted by the fierce glare of his eldest son. "Wha?" he muttered, "you got a problem, boy?"

"You're disgusting."

The smack resounded throughout the tiny room and Henry's head snapped to the side, his cheek already turning a bright red.

"I'm not drunk enough," George said, "to let ya' talk t' me like that."

Henry jumped to his feet and stalked away as Ed returned with a glass of water for his mother; silently, the young boy handed the object over and shot a snarl in the direction of his hated father, who was oblivious to all else but the bottle in his hand.

"The hell are you staring at!?" George snarled.

Ed flinched away from his father's harsh voice, but forced himself to continue to meet his gaze and appear as unafraid as he could. Throughout the years, his mother had taught him about the evil of women in the world, how they would manipulate and steal for their own good, how God hated them all and someday they would suffer in eternal damnation . . . but to Ed, the worst evil he'd seen was in the form of his father. His father who would return home drunk every night, unemployed and smelling of sex and smoke, unconcerned with his family's wellbeing.

He felt his mother's hand on his shoulder and jumped, so consumed with hatred for the man that he hadn't even noticed her movement.

"The Lord's justice will be served, son," Augusta reminded him, "evil is always punished." Her grip on his bony shoulder tightened. "Remember the ways of God, and His people . . . 'And they utterly destroyed all that was in the city, both man and woman, young and old, and ox, and sheep, and ass, with the edge of the sword'."

"Joshua Six: Twenty-One," Ed breathed out.

Augusta paused.

"Amen."

_25 Years Later_

"EDDIE!!!"

The flames rose high into the air as Henry's frantic scream tore through the bushes and he desperately ran around, searching through the smoke to find his missing brother; the fire had come upon them quickly as they surveyed the land they'd recently purchased, and they'd had no time to run.

Now the 39-year-old panted heavily and rested his hands on his bent knees, trying in vain to catch his breath amidst the smoke, and to ignore the heat nipping at his body. He groaned aloud, cursing the trip Ed had forced him to come along on; for their mother, he'd said, she was far too old and weak to check out the land herself.

The rolling hills of Wisconsin stretched out as far as the eye could see, but Henry could barely make out five feet in front of him; a cool breeze swept over the land and brought a shiver to his spine despite the heat of the fire, the smoke burned his eyes and assaulted his lungs. He doubled over, coughing so deeply he thought he might pass out.

"God_damnit_, Eddie! Where are you!?"

The roaring of the flames kept him from hearing the steps of his younger brother as Ed approached him from behind, a heavy club in his shaking hand and a murderous rage in his pale eyes; for years Henry had rejected and mocked his mother, making fun of her for the way she'd raised them. _No more._

Without hesitation, he raised the club and brought it down on the back of his brother's head, smiling in sick satisfaction at the loud crack it made, and the way blood spurted from the wound as Henry's knees buckled and he collapsed face first onto the ground. The smile never leaving his face, Ed lifted his free hand and wiped his brother's blood from his cheek, then nudged the body with the toe of his boot.

Henry was dead.

His brother's blood slipped out from where his head lay and pooled on the dirt beneath him, his blue eyes were wide in his final expression: One of shock, but not of betrayal, he never saw his killer. He would never know it was his little brother, come to deliver unto him the punishment he deserved for being so rebellious toward their mother---and in turn, their God.

Ed turned away, beginning his walk back into town, where he would run into the sheriff's station and cry out that there had been a fire, and Henry was missing; no one would suspect quiet, shy Ed Gein to have committed any foul play. The only other person to know would be his mother. She would be pleased.

"The Lord's justice is swift . . . and final," Ed whispered. "Amen."

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Special thanks to my wonderful beta, Mary C. Tripp!!!**

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_**Chapter One**_

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_November 5th. 2007_

"You're kidding, right?"

Sam Winchester glanced up from his laptop screen to see his older brother staring at him incredulously, his green eyes wide, his mouth agape, his routine of sorting out his clothes (sniff 'n toss) forgotten. Slowly, Dean's face softened into a goofy grin, his white teeth flashing in the dimlight of the motel room as Sam continued to watch him, confused.

_"The_ Ed Gein?" Dean questioned.

"Um, I guess." Sam raised an eyebrow quickly. "I didn't realize you were such a history buff, Dean."

"Oh, c'mon," Dean snorted, "it's not _that._ Don't you know about this guy? What he did . . . what he _inspired?"_

Sam sighed, closing the top of his computer and twisted in his seat to watch his brother, now amused by Dean's excited ramblings; without warning, a flash of memory hit him: _"Give you a couple of severed heads and a pile of dead cows and you're Mr. Sunshine." _He hastily shook it off, but not before silently wishing that they could be out cruising in Dean's restored car, enjoying life again---rather than worrying about Dean's deal, or this Ed Gein guy.

"Sam?"

He blinked, not realizing how long he'd been sitting in silence; Dean had obviously taken notice though, and was now staring at him with a concerned expression on his face. "I'm fine, Dean," he supplied, rolling his eyes, "go ahead and tell me more."

It was clear the older Winchester wasn't happy with Sam's reply, but also knew he wouldn't get anywhere by pressuring him, so Dean shrugged and continued: "You've seen the classics, _Psycho . . . The Texas Chainsaw Massacre . . . _ha, you remember how freaked out you were when you found out Leatherface was real?"

"I was ten," Sam stated, "besides, he wasn't real. Movies 'based on actual events' rarely are, they probably just threw the story together after hearing about some random murder in Texas---"

"Wisconsin, actually."

" . . . Wisconsin."

"Bingo." Dean grinned, then picked up a shirt, sniffed it, and threw it in his duffel bag. "Leatherface was Ed Gein, Norman Bates was Ed Gein. The man scared so many people and shook them up so bad they ended up making movies based on him. Probably some kind o' . . . mechanism to help 'em deal. Not be so freaked out by it. Or whatever. I dunno."

Sam chuckled under his breath. "I see . . . so we're hunting Leatherface."

"Oh yeah, and Hannibal Lector."

_"Hannibal Lector?"_

"Well, no . . . actually it was Buffalo Bill. But y'know, same movie."

"Oookay," Sam said. "So I guess I don't even have to do any research on this guy, huh? Seeing as how you already know everything there is to know about him."

Dean paused, holding a T-shirt to his nose as he thought a for moment, he spoke as he threw the shirt on top of a pile at the foot of his bed: "Dude's mother was a nutjob, real religious freak. She, uh, used to read the Bible to her kids every afternoon, and not the "for God so loved the world" crap, either . . . I'm talking 'bout the rapes, the mass genocides, the plagues."

"Hell of a bedtime story," Sam muttered.

"Yeah, no shit."

"So was he religiously motivated?" Sam asked, packing away his computer and zipping up the case. It was time to get a move on. He shouldered into his jacket as Dean finished closing up his duffel, his laundry sorted.

"He wasn't," Dean replied, "his mom was. She thought all women---exlcuding herself, of course---were whores, and deserved hellfire." He winced, and Sam held his breath at the mention of that place. "Anyway, Ed idolized her, and when she died, he kind of lost it. He used to kidnap middle-aged women who resembled his mother, and . . . preserve them."

"Norman Bates," Sam whispered.

"Exactly."

"Bobby said his contact---"

"Who was that again?"

"She's a doctor at the institute, her name's Grace Myers," Sam said, grabbing his case and heading for the door, "anyway, she told him that three women have disappeared from the Mendota Mental Institute so far. All in their early to mid-50s. And only in the past six weeks."

Dean followed him, tossing his bag over his shoulder. "Were their bodies ever found?"

"No---"

"Gein died in Mendota," Dean interrupted, speaking thoughtfully. "But I'll bet there are other murderers in that place---or were in there anyway---so why are we assuming it's him?"

"---because _pieces_ of Frances Goodwin's body were found," Sam finished.

Dean sat down in the Impala's driver seat and fingered the keys for a second as he mulled over his brother's words; Sam tossed their stuff in the trunk and came around to sit next to him, muttering as he had to cramp up his long legs in order to fit in without hitting the dashboard. Dean wasn't a short man, but at 6"1 he stood a good four inches shorter than his "little" brother.

"So, uh . . . pieces?"

"The leathered face of Frances was found in the hall headed toward the basement. It had been peeled from her skull and sewn back together, meticulously---Grace said it was done with a lot of care."

"How considerate," Dean said, dryly, turning the key and revving up the engine.

"And careless," Sam added, "I can't figure out why Gein's spirit would want to be found out, why he wouldn't be more careful and not leave his . . . handiwork, laying around."

"Well, all spirits are different, Sam."

"Yeah, I know . . . it just doesn't make sense."

Dean nodded his understanding as he popped a cassette into the player and the sounds of Zeppelin filled the Impala, to Sam's dismay; he smirked though, and leaned into the palm of his hand to try to catch a nap. The music and the rumble of the high-powered engine were the closest things to a lullaby he'd ever had, and they soothed him as he drifted off to sleep . . .

-----------------------------

Grace Myers hung up the phone and propped her elbows up on the oak desk, massaging her throbbing temples with long, slender fingers; the hour was approaching ten o'clock and she still hadn't found her way out of the institute and into her car.

The glow from her computer screen was the only light in the tiny office, the only sounds were her fingers dancing across the keyboard; through a pair of spectacles, her blue eyes scanned the words in front of her, soaking in as much information as she could. It was safe to say that Ed Gein was one _screwed up_ guy.

Pictures began forming on the page before her: A woman, hung upside down on a meathook, gutted like a deer, slit open from groin to throat. Further reading revealed that the woman's name was Bernice Worden, and her head and intestines were found in a box, while her heart was on a plate in the kitchen. Grace gulped hard as she continued to stare at the gruesome images, the Winchesters would want to know everything they could about the spirit they were hunting when they arrived, and she was determined to know just as much. After all, the son of a bitch was haunting _her_ patients.

She shuddered as the image of Frances Goodwin's skinned face flashed before her eyes again: The skin had been tanned to preserve it, the tears where it had been sliced off the face were sewn up with care, even her eyebrows were neatly plucked to a fine arch, her lips painted red, and her cheeks rosy with blush. Frances was a 57-year-old woman, kind and dear, but suffering from an early onslaught of Alzheimer's . . . she took no pride whatsoever in her appearance.

Whoever killed her had also done up her face.

Yet even more disturbing than that, the face was fashioned to be a mask, with a band tied from each corner and knotted in the back. As a teenager, Grace recalled staying up late one Halloween and watching _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, _how she clung to her boyfriend's arm and hid her eyes throughout most of the movie---but even then, as scared as she was, she could convince herself it was all just a movie. It wasn't _real_. People didn't really do things like that to other people.

Well, that was a nice fairytale to believe for awhile anyway.

But that was before she met Bobby Singer, and others like him. Before she found out about the strange world that remained hidden from most people, but had shattered it's way into her life.

Now here she was, nearly thirty and working in a mental institute, looking up information on a serial killer who died twenty-three years ago . . . because he was haunting the place, and killing people. She laughed softly, without humor, and finally hit the OFF button on her monitor; she stood up, stretching out her stiff muscles and wincing as her joints popped painfully. She sighed tiredly, straightening her glasses and grabbing the gray jacket she had hanging on the wall next to her.

The only other people left in the building were two security guards and a nurse, and she found the silence eerie as she walked down the dark hallway; her footsteps sounded much louder than usual, even her own breaths managed to startle her. She clutched her briefcase tightly to her chest and picked up speed, suddenly very anxious to get the hell away from the institute as quickly as possible---

"Finally going home, Dr. Myers?"

Grace jumped and let out a small gasp before catching herself. It was just Natasha, the night nurse. "Yes," Grace said, "I, uh, had a lot of work to get done."

The petite blonde fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, shifting her weight from one foot to the other before finally managing: "Um, I heard you were the one who found . . . Frances."

_What was left of her. _"I was," Grace said, slowly.

"Must have been horrible," Natasha whispered, "do the cops have any idea who did it?"

"They didn't say."

"It has to be connected to Denise and Joy's disappearances, doesn't it?"

Grace shrugged. "I don't know, Nat," she answered, "maybe, probably . . . why don't we just let the police handle it?"

Natasha nodded, blushing slightly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you . . . you must be exhausted." She hesitated. "Are you taking tomorrow off?"

"No, I'll be here," Grace assured, "maybe a little late though. I'm expecting two visitors sometime tomorrow, too---young men, Daniel and Scott Wilson. Let someone know to phone my office as soon as they arrive, okay?"

"Will do," Natasha said, "have a goodnight!"

"You too."

Finally free, Grace continued on her way, this time absolutely determined to get _out _the door---interruptions be damned! She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped outside into the crisp air, the cold instantly biting at her nose and ears, a light snow had begun to fall and was coating the grass and melting on the parking lot. _Hard to believe it's November already, _she reflected to herself, digging in her purse for her keys as she made her way across the dark lot. Her '98 Cavalier sat right next to the building, hard to spot with it's dark green exterior that glistened in the moonlight; Grace smiled, imagining driving home in it and feeling the heater warm up her already frozen hands and legs. Once she got home, she fully intended on taking a hot bubble bath, and then burying herself under the covers a good night's sleep; she hopped in the car and settled into the cushioned seat, then---

A loud bang on the roof brought a cry of fear from her lips before she could suppress it, and the blood that slowly seeped down her windshield brought upon shaking that she couldn't control no matter how hard she tried. She wanted so badly to just put the car in gear and get the hell away from whatever was on her car, ditch it someplace and forget all about it; but she knew she couldn't do that, she had to step outside and found out what happened.

"Come on, Grace," she murmured, "you can do this.'

With a trembling hand, she grabbed ahold of the handle and opened her door, noticing how the cold air was now chilling rather than refreshing. She whimped quietly, forcing herself to turn and look at her car, expecting the worst---but still unprepared for what she saw.

A woman hung upside from a long rope that extended from the roof of the building, her entrails were spilling out of her open stomach, the skin of her face had been peeled away to reveal her bloody and sticky skull, her mouth frozen in a scream of agony. Her eyeballs had been gouged out. Blood ran down her stomach from between her legs, dripping onto Grace's car . . .

Unable to breathe. Unable to think. Grace did the only thing she could manage.

She screamed.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 2

**Thanks to Mary T. for being my beta:)**

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_**Chapter Two**_

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"Okay . . . yeah, I understand . . . "

Dean glanced to the passenger side of the car where Sam sat with a cell phone clutched to his ear, his brow was knitted in an expression Dean recognized as Troubled!Sam; they were still a half hour's drive away from Shorewood Hills, WI---a little town outside Madison, where they would staying---and Bobby had just called. Muttering to himself in frustration, Dean drummed an AC/DC tune into the steering wheel while Sam kept on talking:

"All right . . . thanks, Bobby . . . we'll be there soon. Bye." Sam flipped the phone shut and put it back into his coat pocket, settling into his seat again and focusing on staring at the window; Dean watched him for a second, waiting for him to speak. Obviously, he wasn't in the "caring, sharing" kind of mood.

"So . . . what's up?"

Sam took a breath. "Frances Goodwin's body was . . . uh, 'discovered'," he explained, "outside the institute, just two hours ago. She was strung up from the roof and dropped down, she landed on top of Grace Myer's car."

"Damn." Dean blinked in surprise. "That's rough."

"Yeah."

Dean frowned. "So how does Grace know Bobby anyway?" he wondered aloud, "what---was she a hunter before she became a psychiatrist? She live in a haunted house?"

"I don't know," Sam said, "didn't ask."

"Huh," Dean grunted, taking a moment to think, to wonder more about this woman he'd never met but Bobby spoke so fondly of. "Wonder if she's hot."

Sam scowled, rolling his eyes dramatically. _"Dean!"_

Dean laughed, throwing his hands in the air in a surrendering gesture. "Hey, I think it's a valid question! If we're gonna be workin' next to this chick for a week she'd damn well better be easy on the eyes."

"You're a pig, you know that?"

"Hey, you're thinkin' the same thing, just afraid to admit it." After a second, Dean smirked. "Actually, scratch that---knowing you, you're not thinking that at all---" he grinned when Sam rolled his eyes again, setting his jaw in an expression of annoyance that Dean knew all-too-well "---alright, alright, tell me more about the case."

"Frances's body was mutilated," Sam started, "she was sliced open like a field-dressed deer, and the skin of her face peeled off. Plus, her eyeballs had been removed."

"Gross."

"Understatement of the year," Sam remarked. "The institute has been evacuated, all the patients were moved to a nearby hospital while the police continue their investigation."

"Cops?" Dean grumbled his frustration. "_Great_. Just what we need to complicate things!"

"If we stay out of sight we'll be fine."

"Sam, when have _any _of our plans gone the way we wanted them to?" Dean questioned skeptically, his brows climbing toward his hairline. "Especially when the cops are involved."

"So we'll be careful," Sam said, "you _especially_. You're the one whose face is on all the posters, and probably on America's Most Wanted by now."

"America's Most Wanted," Dean tasted the words, a grin slowly softening his worried face, "you really think so? Damn, John Walsh is up on TV talking about me! Wonder who they got to play me in the reenactment---"

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and decided to slouch back down into his seat and listen to his brother's ramblings as they drove on.

"---bet they picked some pretty boy to play you, Sammy. Someone like, uh, that guy from Pirates of the Carribbean!"

"Johnny Depp?" Sam looked up, his voice incredulous.

"No, no, no . . . the other one, the pretty one."

"Orlando Bloom."

Dean scowled. "Whatever. You're such a chick for knowing that." Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel again, he continued with his musing: "They probably picked some hottie to play me, too. A real man's man, y'know? Someone who could kick your ass and look good doing it!"

"Whatever, Dean . . . "

"Like, umm, Matt Damon. Yeah, he was badass in those Bourne movies you like so much. Or . . . the Red Ranger! Whoever the hell he was. Yeah, that'd be _awesome!"_

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A half hour later, the Impala rumbled into the town of Shorewood Hills, drawing stares from the locals who walked down the sidewalks or shopped in the little stores on the side of the street; Dean grinned his appreciation for their admiration as he pulled into a parking space outside the tiny Maplehurst Motel. "At least we know the town's got good taste," he said, cheerfully.

_"Outdated_ taste," Sam replied, teasingly.

"Shut your face, heathen!" Dean snapped.

They laughed as they walked into the office and checked into a room at the end of the row, it was 'quaint', Dean decided aloud, as they stood in the doorway and surveyed the tiny area: Two queen-sized beds with patchwork quilts laid over them, two oak sidetables beside them, the curtains were made of some kind of checkered material, the floor was wooden.

"Looks like we've landed in Hickville."

"I kind of like it," Sam admitted, setting himself down on one of the beds---and wincing at the hard mattress.

"Uh-huh," Dean grunted, "sure."

"So it's---" Sam looked down at his wrist, "---just about noon. You gonna rest up for awhile? We can head out in the evening and meet up with Dr. Myers."

After driving all night, Dean was readier than ever for a good sleep; so he nodded, then threw his bags aside and plopped down on the bed, letting out a muffled "owww" into his pillow that prompted a fit of laughter from Sam. "All right," he said, "I'm gonna grab something to eat. Be back later."

Dean muttered his acknowledgement as Sam went outside and softly shut the door behind him, scoping the area for a little diner or mini-mart; he quickly spotted one and made his way across the two-lane street, heading straight for "Young's Diner", a small white building with green trim and a wooden porch.

When he entered, the scents and sounds filled his senses and put him at ease almost immediately; from the kitchen, he smelled hamburgers on the grill, and steaming apple pie, from the people sitting in the booths, he heard bits and pieces of conversation, ranging from serious to light-hearted fun. A part of him realized the town he had seen so far was a little _too _perfect for comfort, but nevertheless, he accepted it and patiently waited for a waitress as he took a seat at one of the tables.

"So what'll you have, honey?"

The voice was female, with a hint of a Southern accent---and distastefully familiar.

Sam looked away from the window he'd been staring out of, dismayed to see the voice accompanied a woman with long, blonde hair; she wore a pair of skinny, black jeans and dark blue top covered by a mid-riff brown jacket. Mischievous, green-blue eyes stared down at him over a hint of a smile on the woman's youthful face.

"What the hell do you want?" Sam demanded, gruffly.

Ruby slid into the seat across from, folding her arms over her chest, her smirk widening into a smile. "Just keeping an eye on you, Sammy-boy," she replied, "making sure you take care of yourself . . . and that brother of yours." She looked up and smiled charmingly at the young waitress you came to take their order:

"Hi, my name is Dina and I'll be your server today! What can I get for you two?" the waitress asked, cheerfully.

"Actually---" Sam began, his eyes focused on Ruby.

"A Coke," Ruby cut him off, "and a hamburger with everything, plus a side of fries." She leveled Sam with her gaze, arching one eyebrow. "What about you, Sam?"

"Just a Coke, please," Sam said through gritted teeth, his eyes flashing angrily.

"Sure thing!" and the waitress bounced off; Ruby mouthed her words in a silent echo, rolling her eyes in disgust.

_"Humans,"_ she muttered.

"You're not here just to watch me," Sam stated, "so what's really going on? You---" he stopped himself abruptly as, to his surprise, Dina bounced on over with their drinks. He took a sip, glancing away from Ruby only for a moment to look at the motel where Dean slept safely; his thoughts drifted to the deal, the sacrifice, his brother had made for him, and how in God's name he was going to get him out of it.

"Don't get all melancholy now, Sam," Ruby scolded, gnawing absent-mindedly on her straw and watching Sam, interest gleaming in her eyes.

"You said there were things you wanted me to do," Sam said, quietly, "so . . . when are we gonna get down to doing them?"

Ruby grinned, sitting back and folding her hands on the table. "That's my boy," she said, "all ready to get down 'n dirty."

Sam sneered. "I'm not doing this for _you."_

"Ah yes, your brother." Ruby blew bubbles into her drink, staring down at the dark liquid in the tall glass, her reflection staring right back at her.

"Are you ever going to tell me how you can help him?"

"Sure I will," Ruby assured him, _"after _you've done all I ask of you. As a matter of fact---" she paused for a moment, a sly smile creeping onto her face again, "I already have something in mind."

--------------------

"I want to thank you guys for coming," Grace said, her hands clasped in front of her, fiddling nervously; her icy eyes were dark, shadowed, they seemed haunted. "Bobby assured me you would . . . that it wasn't any trouble. But still."

Dean spread his hands, smiling in his charming way in an attempt to to relieve the young woman of any concerns she had: "It's what we do, Doctor. No trouble at all."

"So sorry to hear what you've been through," Sam spoke, his voice dripping with sympathy, but still careful to not smother her.

Grace attempted a tight smile. "Thanks," she said, "it was . . . horrifying. I've gotta say, I can't imagine that you boys have ever been up against someone as . . . sick and twisted as this." She watched them as they exchanged dubious looks. "But then again, maybe I'm wrong," she amened, sincerely hoping she was not.

"We've dealt with some pretty messed up spirits," Dean informed her.

"This should turn out to be relatively simple," Sam said, "we've done so many salt 'n burns, we could probably do it with our eyes closed." He smiled reassuringly. "Once we're done, we'll head up to Plainfield---to the cemetery there---and burn his bones. It'll all be over."

"But what about those poor women?" Grace asked.

"Who?" Dean countered.

"Denise and Joy," Grace explained, "they're still missing. I mean---" she swallowed, her hands beginning to tremble despite her grasping them firmly "---I'm sure they're dead. But their bodies should be found." 

The brothers glanced at each other again, Sam was the first to speak: "We were planning on going up to the institute anyway, seeing what we can find. It's standard procedure. Even though we're pretty sure this is Gein we're after, we like to be posititive."

"Well, if it isn't," Grace said, "how about you two just burn that son of a bitch's bones, too?"

Dean chuckled. "Sounds like a plan."

"And if there's anything I can do," she added, "please, let me know. I'm no hunter, but I might be able to get you things from inside the hospital that would be harder to attain otherwise, you know?"

"We'll keep that in mind," Sam said, "thanks. So . . . you found Frances's remains in the North Wing hallway headed toward the basement, right?"

"That's right."

"And the actual body just . . . dropped from the roof," Dean picked up, "but the cops weren't able to actually figure out where it had been tied off."

"Again, correct." Grace sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes for a second. "I keep seeing that poor woman. She was such a sweetheart, everyone loved her. I can't believe someone would---" she scoffed, cutting herself off. "Anyway, that's all I really know."

"I assume they searched the basement," Dean said, "no signs of . . . anything?"

"They don't really report to me," Grace replied, "but considering they left the institute open till---till Frances was found. I wouldn't think they found anything important."

"We'll check it out anyway," Sam said.

"But if we're gonna head up to Mendota, we'd better get a move on." Dean held out his hand and gently shook Grace's. "We'll be in touch, Doctor. Thanks for the info."

"Be careful," Grace said, reaching out to shake Sam's hand.

"Always are," Dean promised, as he stepped outside the door, Sam closely behind him; Sam shut the door, nudging Dean slightly as they walked down the cold sidewalk and toward the Impala parked on the side of the street. "What?" Dean questioned, eyebrows crinkling with confusion.

"You're _never _careful," Sam grumbled.

"I've never hunted Leatherface before."

"And he's scarier than a demon?"

"I've said it before," Dean said, taking his place in the driver's seat, "and I'll say it again: Demons and all other kinds of evil bastards I get. People are just crazy. Ed Gein was a person."

**TBC **


	4. Chapter 3

**Special thanks to Mary T., for being my wonderful beta!!!**

--------------------

_**Chapter Three**_

--------------------

It was late by the time the Impala roared into the abandoned parking lot half a mile down the road from Mendota, the clock nearing the eleventh hour and the moon high in the dark, clouded sky; Sam made a quiet remark about the certainty of rain in the nearby future as they made their way toward the institute, making sure to stay out of site of the cops still patrolling the area. Dean grunted in return, scowling when the sky opened up and rain began to fall, instantly soaking through his coat and turning the dirt beneath their feet into thick mud.

"Thank you, Mr. Weatherman," he muttered.

The brothers' boots sloshed loudly in the mud despite their best efforts to remain quiet, and their moods dwindled and got darker just as surely as the weather did; by the time they reached the back of the institute, they were both soaking wet and sour. Sam picked the locked door with ease and Dean stood on guard, looking out for any cops; not that he could see anything, he reflected, struggling to even see the hand in front of his face through the torrential downpour.

"Well, I guess this is kinda working in our favor," he admitted to himself.

"What was that?" Sam glanced over as he slowly opened the basement door, shining a flashlight down the long stairs.

Dean shrugged, walking over and joining Sam at the top of the staircase, grimacing when at least half a dozen wet rats scurried out and into the rain, fleeing the flooded basement. "There's at least five inches of water down there," he sighed, "this sucks out loud!"

Sam nudged a sluggish rat away with the toe of his boot. "Let's get this over with."

As always, Dean stepped in front of his younger brother and led the way down, careful not to lose his footing on the slippery, cement steps; he shoved ancient cobwebs out of his way and glared at even more rats as he continued, till he finally set his feet down into the water at the bottom. At first glance, the basement seemed to be fairly average---_whatever is average for the basement of a looney-bin_---empty shelves lined the concrete walls, a couple broken tables sat in the middle of the room with a few glass jars atop of them. There was an old washing machine sitting in a dark corner across from the two, on top of it a wicker basket with ragged blankets stuffed to the rim---which Sam was going to investigate as Dean stood there.

A flash of lightning illuminated the basement through the tiny windows for a moment, and it was then that Dean spotted the elderly woman standing right next to his brother, blood running down the side of her face---

"Sam!!!"

Sam whirled around, his shotgun at the ready, but the woman had vanished, no trace of her left behind; Dean frowned, hurrying over to stand at Sam's side and stare at the empty spot where the spirit had just stood. "Weird."

"What was it?" Sam asked.

"A woman," Dean said, "a dead one. She was beat to hell . . . throat slit open."

Sam made a disgusted face. "Was she threatening?"

"Not really, other than her being all . . . zombie/spirit-like." Dean knelt down to get a closer look at the floor, his EMF detector in hand. "She wasn't reaching for you or anything. Just staring."

"Creepy."

"Anything in there?" Dean gestured to the laundry basket.

"Naw, just a bunch of old blankets. Nothing supernatural about them at all." Sam rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Wasn't expecting anything obvious like bloodstains, the cops would've found that. Still---"

"There's gotta be _something_," Dean insisted, "spirits they, uh, they've got a 'home base' of sorts, we know that. Gein's gotta be keeping the bodies somewhere, and not far away." He paused. "Check out the walls, maybe there's some kind of . . . hidden door. Like back at Roosevelt." He remembered all-too-well getting a chest full of rocksalt and being blasted right through that hidden door.

The wall felt cold beneath his palms as he ran his hands over it, searching for any suspicious cracks or grooves, he heard Sam on the other side of the room, doing the same; both of them were calm yet alert, just as their father had trained them to be. _"Don't let yourselves get scared," _the eldest Winchester had once instructed,_ "freaking out won't save you. But be afraid. Without a healthy sense of fear you're as good as dead." _Dean heeded his advice, but his own fear was never for himself . . . he glanced over his shoulder, making sure Sam was still on his feet.

"Anything yet?"

Sam shook his head, pausing for a moment as he answered: "Nothing."

"Son of a _bitch." _Dean clenched his hand into a fist and punched the wall lightly. "He's gotta be keeping those women somewhere."

"There's no way it's outside this place," Sam said, "unless this is a spirit who drives bodies around in a car!"

Dean's lips curved into a small smile for a moment, but then his face went solemn. "You know, that's how Gein transported his victims. He dug 'em out of the graveyard and drove home with them in the trunk of his car, some guy sold that car in an auction awhile back."

"Still, there's no way a spirit is dragging bodies into a car and driving off with them."

"You're probably right. I've never heard of that, either." Dean scratched his chin, thoughtfully. "He probably can't even leave this place."

"This doesn't make any sense," Sam groaned with frustration.

Dean slapped Sam's back, nodding his head toward the door: "Let's get out of here. You can do a little more research and see if you can come up with something, I'll head up to Plainfield. The cemetery."

"You shouldn't go alone," Sam warned.

"Come _on,_ Sam," Dean rolled his eyes as he headed back to the exit, "I could do a salt 'n burn in my sleep!"

"We're not even sure if it really is Gein."

"So I'll burn him anyway," Dean replied, stopping and turning back to Sam, "like the doc said, it's a good idea."

"Dean---"

"Sam, just---" 

_"Drop!"_

Dean reacted out of instinct, dropping to the floor as Sam fired off a round of rocksalt into the haggard woman who stood behind his brother; instantly, she disappeared, and tiny specks of salt fell onto Dean's back. He swore, getting onto one knee and looking up at Sam: "Another spirit?" he assumed.

Sam was paler than before as he nodded 'yes'.

Concern shot through Dean. "What's wrong?"

"I recognized that woman."

"And---?"

"That was Mary Hogan. She was the first victim of Ed Gein."

-----------------------

"So it's for sure now," Dean said, throwing his coat down on the bed, "we're hunting Gein. No other reason Mary would be appearing to us."

Sam sat down at the rickety, old desk and opened his laptop. "I can't figure out why she's appearing at all," he said, softly, "or that other woman you saw---whoever she was. Mendota is swarming with spirits, apparently."

"Don't tell me we're gonna have to burn _all _those bones!"

Sam smirked. "Well, they didn't hurt us."

"You blasted her full of rocksalt and she wasn't even trying to hurt me?" One eyebrow raised. "A little trigger happy, huh, Sam?"

"Better safe than sorry." Sam typed something quickly, his eyes darting back and forth across his screen. "Besides, she didn't exactly look friendly."

"Now does this mean I can go burn his bones?"

"We still have to find where he's keeping those bodies, Dean."

Dean scowled. "We don't need Gein's spirit for that," he pointed out, "not like we're gonna tie him up and torture the info out of him. We can find those women just as easily without him around to get in the way, if not easier."

Sam sighed, pulling up the aged picture of Mary Hogan and staring at it sadly. "You're probably right," he admitted, " . . . but I still don't like the idea of you going out there alone." He rose and grabbed his jacket. "I'm going with you."

"Naw, Sam." Dean held up his hand to stop him. "It's an hour and a half drive, we won't be there till almost two and you haven't had a good sleep since the night before last. You stay here and rest up, I'll be back in a few hours."

"But---"

"Chill, dude. I've got my phone."

"What good is that going to do if you're ninety miles away and I have no car?" Sam demanded, huffing in annoyance as Dean walked outside and to the Impala.

"Call Doc Myers!" the call was muffled as he shut the door and started the engine.

Sam grumbled to himself, knowing it was a lost cause, once Dean had made up his mind about something there was no convincing him otherwise; he turned his phone on as he went back into the motel room, setting it onto the table next to his bed and laying down. Dean was right about one thing, he hadn't slept since they left for Shorewood Hills, not counting the uncomfortable nap he'd taken in the Impala.

He glanced over and made sure the volume on his phone was on high, wanting to make sure if Dean called he'd hear it, then relaxed and pull a blanket up to his chin, closing his eyes . . .

-------------------

The final strands of AC/DC still playing in his mind, Dean stepped out of the Impala and onto the grass of the small family plot where the Gein clan was buried; father, mother, brother Henry, and crazy Eddie. He vaguely remembered hearing about someone stealing Ed's gravestone a few years back, and wondered what kind of weirdo would do that---_desecration sure, but stealing it? What was he gonna do---put it in the parlor and show it to guests???_

Laughing quietly at his own joke, he grabbed a shovel from the trunk and stuck it into the moist ground, determined to get the job done before it started raining even harder---apparently the hurricane in Madison hadn't reached Plainfield yet. However, digging up a grave by oneself took a hell of a lot longer than doing so with a strong younger brother; wiping sweat from his brow, Dean wondered for a second whether or not he should've let Sam come along. _No, _he decided, _if something _does _happen out here, he might get hurt as tired as he is. And he sure wouldn't be much help to me. _Still, thoughts of Sam sleeping peacefully in a warm bed while he was out in the freezing rain flooded his mind and he couldn't help but feel just a little----

"Oww."

He opened his eyes---_when did I close them?_---to find he was a good fifteen feet away from the grave and at the bottom of a huge tree trunk, his head now throbbing painfully and the inside of his cheek bleeding from where he had bitten it. And how the hell had he gotten there anyway? Groaning, he forced himself to lift his head and look up.

A faded figure stood a few feet away from him, wearing old jeans and a leather jacket with lambs wool lining, the face was that of a man in his forties who had seen hard times and come out stronger (_or insaner_) because of them. There was no mistaking who he was, either, Dean had seen too many specials on the man to not know, and he shuddered at the realization that he really _should _have let Sam come with him.

"Hey there, Eddie."

Before he could move, or even make a sound, Ed lunged forward, a wooden club in his calloused hand; the club flew through the hair, and before he lost consciousness, Dean heard the sickening crack it made as it connected with his head.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm sorry that this took awhile to get updated, I had just about finished the chapter on Saturday when my computer decided to shut down, and refused to start up again; so I re-typed everything on Sunday and had just gotten done sending it to my beta (love you, Mary!) when **_**that **_**computer broke down, too. I'm using someone else's right now, so I can't make any promises about updating within a week, but it probably won't be too long before my other computers are fixed. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**Sierra**

--------------------------------

_**Chapter Four**_

--------------------------------

The senses returned one by one as consciousness floated back and images began to form in front of his blurry vision: He was in a tiny room with concrete floors and moldy walls, a table sat a few feet away, covered in blood, with things resting on top of it that he couldn't make it . . . and didn't want to. The stench was overwhelming, wherever he was stank of blood and death, so much it made him gag; there were few sounds, but as it was so silent he could hear the pitter-patter of raindrops outside, and the scurrying and squeaking of . . . _more rats! _Groaning, he realized what an uncomfortable position he was in, laying on his stomach, one arm stretched out beneath him and the other flung aside; the floor was cold, wet and hard, and made him ache so much he almost forgot about the pounding in his head. Almost.

Taste returned last, and with it the realization that he was choking on the foulest tasting liquid he'd ever had in his mouth---his own blood; gagging again, he crawled onto his hands and knees and spat blood onto the floor. A breeze snuck under a barely opened window and sank into his bones, bringing upon a fit of shivering that nearly knocked him forcefully back down as he sat against the wall, hugging himself in an attempt to keep warm. _Wisconsin in November . . . _not _a good idea. _

The door opened quickly and slammed against the wall with a bang, sending shoots of pain through his already throbbing head and flickering stars dancing before his eyes; with a stifled moan, he brought a dirty hand up to rub his forehead gingerly. His eyes closed, but he heard dragging footsteps drawing nearer, and then a rough hand gripping his forearm so tightly he winced; ripping his hand from his face, he stared up at his captor with defiant eyes.

"Eddie Gein," Dean rasped, his throat dry and painful, "somehow I always thought you'd be . . . taller."

Ed stared down at him through glistening eyes that held no emotion, they were . . . disconcerting, to say the least. The _very _least. Dean's eyes traveled up and down the man, trying to focus and fully assess his opponent; Gein wasn't tall, nor well-built, but he appeared strong, and the large hammer he held in his hand made Dean's gut twist.

"Y'know in the movies," Dean began again, "Leatherface was this _huge _dude! I'm talking _big_. Muscles, and a beer gut, scary as hell . . . now don't get me wrong, you're as fugly as the rest of 'em, but scary? Not so much."

The smack from the backhand across his face echoed through the room, and he grunted as his head banged against the wall; another wave of dizziness and nausea assaulted him, as a deep voice spoke from behind Ed:

"Dean Winchester . . . always the cocky one." The voice became a man with dirty blonde hair that stuck to his forehead, and gray eyes so dark they reminded Dean of clouds right before a storm. _Creepy._

"You know my name," Dean stated.

"I do. I know everything about you."

"Guess you've got an advantage over me then . . . " Dean raised an eyebrow. "So who the hell are you?"

"That's not important."

Dean shrugged, then winced and cursed himself for further adding to the aches and pains he was suffering from. "Hey, man . . . if you wanna die without a name that's your choice. Just thought I'd give you the chance." He pressed his lips together tightly to hide his anxiety when he saw Ed's hand grip the hammer even more.

"You really think little Sammy is gonna come to your rescue?" the stranger laughed.

"Of course he will," Dean replied, "he's a smart kid."

"Ah yes . . . Sam Winchester. The boy king . . . the anti-Christ . . . "

Dean nearly choked on his laughter. "You've gotta be kidding me!"

"You're _still _in denial?" the man asked, incredulously, "after everything you've seen him do? I heard he killed that Jake guy in cold blood---"

"Jake stabbed him in the back!" Dean defended Sam, angrily.

"Then murdered that girl who was possessed by the crossroads demon---"

"Yeah well, desperate times---"

"Or how about the other possessed humans he's needlessly killed?"

"We're at war!" Dean snapped, "people have to do things they don't like when they're fighting a war . . . you don't know Sam, he doesn't have evil in him, he never could."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dean."

"Oh, like you're some kind of saint!"

"No . . . I'm not. But at least I don't pretend to be." The man smirked at Dean's discomfort, then continued: "But back to the point---he doesn't even know where you are . . . or who has you. Besides, we'll get to him before he even has the chance to figure any of that out."

Dean's blood ran cold at the words, a chill raced up his spine and images from the past flooded his mind . . . _Sam being stabbed in the back . . . falling to the cold, muddy ground . . . dying in his brother's arms . . . _

"I swear to God," he hissed, "if you touch him---if you even go _near _him---I'll kill you." His voice grew deep and dangerous, and to his pleasure he saw the man take a step back warily, his impassive expression faltering for a second. "And it won't be quick," he added.

"Big words," Ed's friend responded quickly, "for a man who's laying against a wall."

"If you really knew everything about me . . . you'd know that doesn't mean anything." Dean smirked with satisfaction at the man's reaction;, it was well-known the lengths he had gone to after Sam was killed, the things he would do and the people he was willing to sacrifice. When it came to his little brother, there was _nothing _he wouldn't do to keep him safe.

"We'll see." The man gestured to Dean with his hand, nodding to Ed. "Restrain him."

Ed grabbed Dean's arms again and lifted him, pressing him tightly against the wall with his body, he stank of smoke of alcohol; Dean coughed, pasting on a fake smile as he spoke: "Easy there, tiger. I don't swing that way, y'know." His words only seemed to anger Ed more, and the man forced his arms over his head, straining his shoulders. "Ouch," he muttered, "don't damage the merchandise, man."

"Shut up."

"He finally speaks," Dean chuckled, though his gut tightened nervously.

The blow to his stomach knocked the air from his lungs and left him gasping weakly, trying to double over but being held up by Ed's strong hands; who knew a spirit could hit so hard anyway? His mind was still foggy from one _hell _of a concussion, and his vision was getting even more blurry with the stress of standing up, even while being held upright and tied to a wall.

And then realized there was no rope on the wall.

And that the hammer Ed had been holding all this time was now raised.

A second later, his scream echoed over the valleyside . . .

-------------------------------------

Sam opened his eyes slowly as light began to flicker in through the curtains, shining on his turned face and gently rousing him; he had fallen asleep in his jeans and undershirt the night before, barely taking the time to kick off his boots before collapsing on the bed. He'd only woken up once to check if Dean had returned, and one glance to the bed had eased his worries and he'd fallen right back asleep. Now it was past seven in the morning, later than he'd slept in years; but, he reflected, Dean had been right, he _really _need that sleep.

Speaking of Dean . . .

He glanced at the bed closest to the door, smirking at the form that was sprawled out there, covered by a quilt so much he couldn't even see any skin. "Dean," he called out, softly, "c'mon, man, it's late." He stretched out and tugged at the quilt, then put his hand on Dean's shoulder . . . or what _should _have been Dean's shoulder, but was definitely a woman's. Ripping away the blanket, the bloodied figure of an elderly woman appeared before him, curled up in almost the fetal position, her hair a ratty mess and blood covering her face. Sam jumped off the bed, horrified, then hurried to the window and looked around anxiously, making sure no one had seen anything; inwardly cursing himself for being so dead to the world all night.

_How could I have slept all night and not noticed someone did this? _Hastily, he snatched his cell from the nightstand and glared at the dark screen: No missed calls.

"Damn it, Dean!"

The door swung open easily just as the words left his mouth, and he looked up sharply to see Ruby standing there, silhouetted by the early morning sun. "Mornin', Sam," she greeted him, flashing a smile that was deceivingly friendly.

"Not the time, Ruby," Sam snapped, grabbing his shirt and beginning to button it up.

"Oh no?" Ruby pouted, mocking him. "What's the matter, Sammy? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

"Shut up."

"Now, now . . . that's no way to talk to a friend, is it?"

"You're not my friend." Sam sat down on the bed, grabbing his boots. "And you should be worried too right about now, if something happens to Dean you don't have any leverage over me---" he flashed her a dangerous glare "---you'll lose your little pet."

Ruby sighed melodramatically, plopping down in the chair closest to the door. "Did dumb old Dean go and get himself into trouble again?" she asked, rolling her eyes as she twirled a finger through her hair. "What a surprise."

"I don't know what happened," Sam said, standing up and heading for the door, "and he's not dumb."

"Whatever." Ruby laughed, jumping to her feet and following him outside, only stopping when he turned around, mere inches from her:

"You're not coming with me."

"Of course not," Ruby said, "I know that, we couldn't risk you finding Dean and him seeing the two of us hanging out like this . . . " she placed a kiss on her fingers and teasingly put them to Sam's forehead. "You be careful now, Sammy, I need my soldier boy for later." With that, she turned away and walked confidently down the sidewalk toward a dark blue, beat-up Neon parked across the street.

Sam seethed inwardly, his blood now boiling with rage. _Take it easy, Sam, _he told himself, _now's not the time. Dean might be in trouble. _He reached into his coat pocket and flipped open his cell phone, speed dialing Grace, pleased when she picked up after only one ring:

_"Hello?"_

"Grace, it's Sam. I think Dean's in trouble."

_"What happened?"_

"He went out last night to burn Gein's bones." _I can't believe I let him go alone! _"And he hasn't come back, no phone call, either. I need a car."

_"I'll be there in ten minutes."_

Sam hung up and stuffed his phone back down into his pocket, fidgeting impatiently and thinking (not for the first time) that he _really _should have his own car; he sat down on the sidewalk, drumming his fingers against the cement. Ten minutes felt like an eternity when your brother's life could very well be on the line, he never was good at not imagining the worst, and flashes of Dean lying alone in the cemetery with a bloody gash on his head appeared before him . . . or Dean gutted like an animal, hanging upside down . . .

He nearly gagged and brought a fisted hand up to his mouth, forcing himself to no longer think of such things; the minutes dragged by as he sat there, his patience growing thinner and thinner, until finally a little Saturn pulled into the parking lot and Grace stepped out. _She must have left right away,_ Sam thought. Her hair was messy and uncombed, she wore no makeup, and her sneakers were untied.

"How far is the cemetery?" she asked, urgently.

"Too far," he grumbled, jumping in the driver's seat.

"Wait!" Grace hurried around to the other side and sat in the passenger's seat.

"Get out of the car, Grace."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not."

"Hey, I'm no expert," Grace admitted, "but the last time one of you went up there by himself . . . it didn't work out. So you're not going alone."

" . . . Fine." Shifting gears, he stepped on the gas pedal. Hard. "Hope to hell you're not afraid of going fast. This is supposed to be a one and a half hour drive . . . it's gonna be a lot shorter than that."

-------------------------------

_"Fuck!"_

Ed and Creepy-Eyes had left the room, so Dean no longer tried to hold back the tears that welled up in his tired eyes and demanded release and they ran down his dusty cheeks, leaving streaks in their wake and tasing salty on his trembling lips. The pain in his head and now dimmed to a minor ache in comparison to the agony shooting through his hand, pinned above his head by a nail driven through his palm. The other arm hung at his side, mocking him with his own lack of strength, if he was a _real _man he'd be able to yank that nail out of his hand and free himself. If he was half the man his dad was. He held his breath, steeling him against the pain he knew he would feel in a second, and twisted---

Whimpering pathetically, he slumped back against the wall, defeated, knowing he would never be able to get away by himself. _C'mon, Sammy . . . use that geeky head of yours and get me the hell outta' here! _He shivered, glaring at the open window once again and cursing aloud when he saw the flurries falling from the sky, coating the ground outside with a white mist; if it was snowing midday, it would be unbearably cold at night.

His head was still spinning, and every second or so he had to catch himself from sagging and giving into the darkness that was steadily crowding his vision; if he fell over, that nail would rip through his hand and cause permanent damage---if there wasn't any already. He recalled one time, he was about twelve, when his father had been outside repairing storm damage on the trailer they lived in for a few months; John had fallen off the ladder when Sam ran outside shouting something, flung out his hand and driven it right onto a nail that was sticking up from a board that lay on the ground. John cursed like hell, Sam cried, and Dean rushed around grabbing bandages and hydrogen peroxide, calm as could be . . . he also remembered John pulling his hand off the nail with a giant grunt, sweat breaking out on his brow.

Breaking out of his daydream, Dean renewed his determination. _If Dad could do it, so can I. _

Sam _would _come for him.

And he _would _find him.

But until then, he was going to work his ass off getting himself free; gritting his teeth, he reached up with his other hand and gripped the nail, trying to assess just how deep it had been driven into his hand, to his relief, a good half inch was still sticking out. With a shaking hand, he wrapped his fingers around the nail and braced himself against the wall---then yanked as hard as he could.

And dropped to the floor as Creepy-Eyes appeared in the doorway . . . and a gunshot rang out.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 5

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_**Chapter Five**_

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Beneath the hood of the 1973 Coronet that sped down the Shorewood Hills streets rumbled a powerful 440 Magnum that drew stares from the young motorheads of the town, who whispered about what a shame it was to see a fine car like that go to waste. The four-door sedan was a pale yellow/beige color, and rust had eaten away at the backside so that large gaping holes were easily visible. Once upon a time, it would've been a nice-looking car that would be admired by many, but years of neglect had left it nothing more than a shadow of it's past self.

The car pulled into the Maplehurst and it's driver exited the seat quickly, with a purpose; his hardened hands stuffed deep into his lamb's wool lined pockets, he walked up to the Room 17 and peered inside the window. The room appeared to be empty, but he could easily see the body he'd left laying in the bed closest to the door the previous night; the other bed was abandoned, sheets and blankets carelessly tossed aside. A quick attempt at turning the doorknob revealed what he already suspected: It was locked. A minor inconvenience that barely slowed him down, he quickly picked the lock and entered the room swiftly, knowing that opening the door slowly and letting it creak would only serve to be more noticeable if someone was inside.

But Sam Winchester was nowhere to be seen.

The room had obviously been abandoned in a hurry---two duffel bags sat next to the far wall, unzipped, clothes spilling out of them; a laptop computer was on the tiny table, the monitor lifted ever-so-slightly and the chair at the table pushed aside as it would be after someone stood up from it. The body on the bed was undisturbed, the woman was still laying on her side just as she had been hours before, blood having dripped from her open wounds and staining the white sheets beneath her.

He stepped up to the bed and rolled the corpse onto her back so her lifeless eyes stared up at him, her face was twisted in the last expression she would ever make, her mouth open in an agonized scream, her pale eyes wide with fear. The expression sent enjoyable chills down his spine and he shivered, baring his crooked, yellow teeth in a feral smile; his trembling hand reached down and thumbed the stringy, gray hair that lay on the pillow, then brushed the woman's cold cheek. Her skin was dry and taut, stretched tight across her face; it almost felt like leather beneath his fingers, just like the leather coat he wore, the leather belt wrapped around his bulging waist. Sitting down on the bed next to the body, he yanked the knife out of the holder at his hip and placed his hand on her forehead, holding her head steady and placing the knife at the base of her jawline.

Slowly, methodically, he began to peel the skin back away from her face, cutting it away with the knife and pulling at it with his thick fingers; little by little, the skin came loose, revealing the sticky, bloodied skull of the woman. Her eyes were now abnormally large, popping out of their sockets; her mouth was stuck in the eerie expression of a wide smile, her stained teeth bared up at him as he continued his work. Ignoring her, he went about carefully taking the rest off and holding it up to survey it; he nodded, pleased with the end result, then folded up the mask and stuffed it into a tiny bag he wore on his leg. It was time to get a move on before Sam returned---or found out where his brother was. If he hadn't already.

He paused in the doorway, debating whether or not to bring the body with him and clean up the mess on the bed; he decided against it after a moment, better to let the blame for the murder land on the brothers and cut the police investigation short. After all, the master would not be happy if the cops eventually traced the murders back to them.

Sighing, he turned and left the room without looking back.

------------------

"Shit!"

Dean dropped to the floor in a heap as a gunshot rang out and echoed through the tiny room; the bullet slamming into the wall he was previously leaning on and sending thousands of different sized splinters raining down on him. He coughed on the dust that flew into the air and clogged his lungs, then grunted in pain when he felt rough hands grip his shoulders and throw him onto the floor; Creepy-Eyes sneered down at him for a moment, obviously taking extreme pleasure in disabling him.

"Nice try."

Instincts kicked in and Dean kicked upward with both his legs, his boots landing in his opponent's stomach and knocking him backward against the wall, giving Dean enough time to regain his footing; his eyes trailed down the front of the man's suade jacket and to his belt, where he had securely tucked the powerful .45 he'd nearly taken Dean's head off with. "Kinda close there," he said, quietly, "you wanna kill me ahead of schedule?"

"Couldn't have you runnin' out of here," Creepy-Eyes replied, "and warning your little brother."

"So why are you keeping me alive anyway?"

They lunged at each other at the same time, Dean's fist connecting with the man's nose, snapping his head back; Creepy-Eyes delivering two quick punches to the pit of Dean's stomach and doubling him over, then bringing the handgrip of his gun down on the back of Dean's neck. Dean fell to his knees, nearly toppling over completely but catching himself just in time and instead sweeping the man's feet out from under him so he landed loudly on his butt. He scrambled over, straddling his enemy's hips and holding his arms down with his knees; then repeatedly punching him in the face with both hands, ignoring the agonizing pain that shot through him. Blood spurted from his knuckles as they connected with teeth, but he barely noticed, too determined to disable his captor and get the hell away from him; he never noticed how his opponent shifted positions, only felt the impact as knees slammed into his lower back and pushed him down. Before he could recover, Creepy-Eyes had drawn his gun and had it aimed directly at his forehead, his grip tight, the gun perfectly steady.

Keeping the gun trained on him, Creepy-Eyes yanked Dean to his feet and slammed him against the wall again, pressing his forearm into the younger man's throat till he gagged and coughed harshly, struggling for air; abruptly, he released his hold on Dean and stepped back, laughing. "The _only _reason you're still alive," he spat, "is just in case Ed isn't killing your brother right now . . . and he finds his way here."

"You really think some dead guy's gonna get the drop on _my _brother?" Dean scoffed.

"Don't be so cocky, Dean . . . after all, _you're _here."

"Yeah well . . . everyone knows I'm the dumb brother."

"Apparently so."

Swiftly, he brought the gun up and slammed it against the side of Dean's head; the hunter's body went limp and crumpled to the floor, landing with a bone-jarring thud, his head twisted at an awkward angle that would most-assuredly bother him when he awoke. Blood pooled up at his temple and slowly began to run down the side of his face, dripping down his parted lips and onto his outstretched hand; his attacker eyed him for a moment longer, smirking his satisfaction. He walked over to the table and took the rope off it, then went back to Dean and tied his arms behind his back, tightly, making sure there was no way he could escape.

Distantly, he heard the sounds of the front door opening and someone dragging their feet as they entered the tiny cabin, heavy breathing that he recognized as Ed's, and a low, gravelly voice calling out: "Peter? Where are you?"

Peter glanced at Dean one last time, then turned and walked into the other room: "I was just checking in on our prisoner, Ed." He folded his arms, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "So . . . how did everything go?" 

Ed's hesitation spoke volumes, he took a moment to think, his icy blue eyes darting back and forth nervously: "He wasn't there."

"Damn it!" Peter hissed, folding his hand up into a fist and punching the flimsy wall, causing dust and plaster to fall down on top of them. "So he must have found the body, and gone out searching for his brother---I _told _you to take care of this last night!" He jabbed his finger toward Ed, snarling angrily.

"I---" Ed began.

"Shut up." Peter's voice was low, and dangerous. "He probably went to the cemetery, that's where we found his brother. But the car won't be there, so he'll leave quickly." He snatched his coat from a knob on the wall. "C'mon, we can't let him get away."

"What about our prisoner?"

Peter spared a look toward the room where Dean still lay. "He's not going anywhere," he assured Ed, "now let's go, we have to hurry."

------------

"So why'd you let him go alone?"

Sam shot a glare toward Grace, who sat in the passenger seat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, and her gaze completely focused on him; but there was no reproach there, or accusations, so he softened. "When Dean decides to do something, it's hard to convince him otherwise. I . . . uh, haven't gotten much sleep lately . . . he wanted me to rest."

Grace tilted her head, curious. "Something wrong?"

_Something wrong? Ha! You have no idea, lady. _"No, nothing," he replied, "I just have trouble sleeping sometimes." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, concentrating on the two-lane blacktop ahead of him. "It's not as bad as Dean thinks, but he's . . . protective." He paused. "You have any older siblings?"

"No," Grace said, "I'm the oldest of three kids . . . two younger brothers."

"Two?" Sam laughed, "Dean would've gotten crazy if he'd had two brothers to look after . . . he's like that, had to be looking after me all the time."

"Well, that's how us older kids are," Grace admitted, smiling wistfully, a hint of sadness behind the act. "It's a disease."

Sam nodded, easing the steering wheel into a gradual turn, winding around the small mountain. "So, Doc," he began, "we've been wondering about you . . . how is it you came to know Bobby? It's not like he makes friends easily. And you live in _Wisconsin_, that's over seven hundred miles from Bobby's place."

Grace was silent for a moment, her hands twitching in her lap, then clasping together in an effort to steady them. "I understand your curiousity, Sam," she said, her voice suddenly quiet, "it's only natural . . . and I know in your line of work you can't just trust someone without knowing who they are."

Sam didn't respond, but kept looking straight ahead, his face impassive.

"I was . . . visiting my aunt and uncle in Nebraska, over eleven years ago---right after I graduated high school. We were always a close family growing up, and my siblings and I sometimes spent a couple weeks in the summer with my mom's sister, they had a farm. It was a . . . nice place." Her face was turned toward the window, watching the trees fly by. "The older of my two brothers, Keith, wanted to check out the local cemetery, so we went out there one night . . . just to goof around, y'know?"

"We didn't think there was such thing as ghosts, that it was all just stories, things people made up to scare their friends around a campfire . . . or something parents told thier children to keep them out of dangerous places at night. But then I heard Keith scream . . . and when I turned around there was a man standing next to my brother." She shuddered. "He was _strange _looking, it was like I could see right through him . . . and then he looked at me and . . . I freaked out." 

"You ran away?" Sam asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"No . . . I would never leave my brother. When I say I freaked out, I mean _freaked out _on that guy . . . I ran at him with the first thing I could find, a big rock, and hit him on the head as hard as I could."

"And hitting a spirit with a rock," Sam said, "makes about as much sense as going hunting with an accordion."

"Exactly. It went right through him . . . he wasn't the least bit phased, except that it pissed him off." Grace closed her eyes briefly. "Anyway, the next thing I knew I was flying through the air . . . when I woke up . . . they told me Keith was dead." A tear escaped from her eye, running down her cheek, ignored. "No one believed me, they thought I was imagining things . . . or my eyes had been playing tricks on me. Still, the story went around . . . as stories do. And then I got a call from a guy named Bobby Singer, telling me he believed me, and he was going to help."

Sam looked at her, his compassionate instincts crying out, telling him to find a way to comfort her, but knowing there were no words anyone could say. "I'm sorry, Grace," he spoke, sincerely, "I . . . can't imagine."

"Bobby told me all about you," Grace said, "and your brother. Seems like this 'other world' was kind of forced on both of us."

"Can't imagine why anyone else would have anything to do with it," Sam said, "I sure as hell tried to get away. Did you . . . start hunting after your brother was killed?"

"Oh god, no." Grace shook her head, vigorously. "I'm no hunter, never could be. Don't have the nerve _or _the stomach for it. I stayed in Nebraska for a little while though, felt safer when I knew Bobby was nearby, and he taught me a lot. Eventually, I got it together and went to school."

"Why'd you become a psychiatrist?"

"I wanted to all through high school," Grace said, "my aunt was and . . . well, I just never imagined doing anything else. What about you? I'm sure you didn't always want to be a hunter."

Sam chuckled. "I _never _wanted to be a hunter," he said, "but I didn't have any goals for a long time, during high school I probably went through a hundred different job options before settling on law. I was . . . going to be a tax lawyer."

"Hell, Sam . . . you're the devil himself!"

Sam flinched, unable to help himself. "That's what some people say," he muttered, under his breath, not even trying to hide the bitterness in his voice. After everything his family had done for the hunter community, they repaid them by hunting him . . . hurting his brother.

"I don't believe that."

Sam smirked as he drove through the gate of the cemetery, guiding the car down a narrow dirt road. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. Wouldn't want you to feel like you had to watch your back while we're out here." His gut twisted, as it always did whenever he thought about the enormous odds he and Dean were facing, and the dark shadows that lurked around every corner.

They parked in a tiny, circular area, then exited the car and went out in search of the Gein plot . . . or the Impala, whichever came first; Sam cupped his mouth with his hands and called out for his brother, his powerful voice carrying over the rolling hills. It was cold out, if he had to guess he would venture the temperature was well below freezing, and occasionally he would see a snowflake fall from the sky, warning him of a storm later in the day. Dean would be pissed. His older brother had always hated cold weather.

"Sam!" Grace called, standing by a small, metal fence surrounding four headstones. "Over here!"

Sam jogged over to her, taking only a second to glance at the headstones and verify the last name written on them, then kneeling to the ground and looking for something---_anything_---that could be a clue. Not finding anything, he rose to his feet and surveyed the area around the graves, at first not noticing anything out of the ordinary---but then spotting a large tree around fifteen feet away, and the dark red liquid that had stained it. "No," he muttered, breaking into a run and skidding to a halt only when he reached the tree, then crouching down and studying it: No doubt about it. Blood.

_Dean's blood._

"The grave hasn't been touched," Grace mentioned, "so . . . I guess Dean couldn't do the salt 'n burn."

_I don't give a _shit _about the salt 'n burn! _Sam's mind snapped, but aloud, he said: "Well, unless you carry a shovel and a crapload of salt . . . we can't do anything about that, I guess. Besides, we've gotta find Dean. There's no time to waste."

"Sam . . . " Sam stood up, rising to his full height and unknowingly intimidating the petite woman; she found her voice after a second though, and spoke again: "I know we have to find Dean as soon as possible, but don't you think it'd be a good idea to not have to face Gein when we get there?"

"You mean to tell me you _do _carry salt and a shovel in your car?" Sam demanded, incredulously.

"No, at least on the salt. But there was a mini-mart less than a mile down the road." Grace shrugged. "And I have a shovel in my trunk."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine. Let's just hurry up and get this over with . . . I need to find my brother."

It only took ten minutes to leave and get the salt, but by the time they returned the snow had started falling more heavily, and it wouldn't be long before the ground started to freeze; digging up a grave with only one shovel took awhile under normal circumstances, and it wasn't till over an hour later that the battered coffin of Ed Gein was visible. Panting from exertion, Sam jumped down into the grave and used the shovel to open the lid, expecting to look down and see the badly decomposed body of the serial killer . . .

"Oh my god," Grace whispered, bringing her hands to her mouth, her eyes widening with shock.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Sam sighed, "it's empty."

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Wow, guys, I'm sorry this took so long! Thank you so much for those of you who come back and read this (and leave a review!), I know how frustrating it can be to wait around for a story (especially for a month). The holidays built a wall that I had a hell of a time trying to break though!**

**As always, very special thanks to my beta, Mary T. Who, even while writing her own story (which is brilliant, btw), still manages to read through my chapters and make sure they make sense :) **

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_**Chapter Six**_

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"Sam, I don't understand."

Grace turned and followed Sam as he stalked back to the car, wiping the sweat from his face and grumbling quietly; the casket deep within the earth had been empty, and while she had no idea what that meant, she knew enough about the supernatural world to be aware that spirits didn't just get up and crawl their way out of their own graves. _But what does?_ she wondered, stuffing her cold hands into her pockets and gritting her teeth in an effort to try to stop shivering. Snow was now steadily falling over the cemetery and coating the ground, crunching beneath her shoes with each step she took as she hurried back to her car and to Sam.

"Sam," she tried again, just as they reached the car, "what does this mean? Is he . . . alive?"

"No," Sam answered, slipping into the driver's seat and quickly popping the key into the ignition, "not exactly. He's alive in that he can move around just like us, and seem just like us."

"So he's not a spirit." "Someone must have performed the ritual," Sam muttered, more to himself than to Grace, "probably some . . . American psycho killer enthusiast, or a teenager who didn't know what they were doing." Next to him, Grace flinched slightly. "Either way, we're not just hunting Gein anymore. There's someone else, too."

Grace took a moment to run his words through her mind, trying to figure things out with the sketchy information she had, a thought formed gradually, but it was too horrific to be real, something out of a Romero flick or a B-level movie full of gore and bad acting. Still, she found her composure and turned to Sam, her eyes searching him for more answers as she voiced her theory: "You mean to tell me . . . he's a zombie?"

"Yes and no." With an expert's ease, Sam sped up and weaved down the windy road. "He's been reincarnated by someone. He might even be under their control. The last time Dean and I faced one, it was a young girl who'd been killed in a car accident . . . she'd been resurrected by a friend she'd had in real life, and was going around getting revenge on the people she blamed for her death."

"So . . . they're not brain-eating zombies then?"

Sam smirked. "No, definitely not."

"Are they evil?"

Sam frowned, concentrating as they went around a sharp corner and the wind outside shook the tiny vehicle. "Angela was a sweet girl in real life, good grades, loved her boyfriend, good friend; when she was resurrected, she lost any sense of right or wrong, but she wasn't really evil." He paused, slowly recalling the events. "She killed the boyfriend who cheated on her . . . the friend he cheated with . . . and then eventually, the guy who brought her back, because she felt betrayed by him." "But Gein was evil to begin with. Even while he was alive."

"So this is different." Grace inhaled and held her breath for a moment, her brain struggling to grasp the strange turn of events that had just unraveled before her. _A zombie?_ She couldn't hold in the odd chuckle, and it softly escaped through her parted lips, startling Sam, who twisted his head to look at her, and incredulous expression on his face.

"You're actually laughing?" he nearly sputtered.

"Sorry," Grace choked out, composing herself. "It's just that . . . I mean, a zombie. I've heard of some strange things, but never . . . " she trailed, unable to find the words.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I guess it is strange," he admitted, "Dean and I . . . well, we're kind of used to this sort of thing. But it must be pretty crazy for you."

"To say the least," Grace laughed, with no humor, " . . . so how do we kill this thing?"

"I'm going to kill him by pinning him to his casket," Sam replied, "if he was resurrected the same way Angela was that should work, but I don't know. It doesn't seem like too many people around here are familiar with ancient Latin rituals."

"Doubtful." Grace paused. "How else would he have been . . . resurrected?"

Sam frowned, the snow was beginning to stick to the road and was making it increasingly slippery, it wouldn't be long before the backwoods roads were treacherous. "Zombie stories started, as many things do, from real events. But most of the lore on them comes from Caribbean voodoo, where it is thought that a witch would reanimate a corpse and be in control of them. There are also stories of someone giving a person a drug---typically a neurotoxin found in the liver, skin and bones of a puffer fish---that makes them seem to be dead, then after they were buried they went and got them; but the brain damage to the victim was so severe they were basically like 'zombies' and under the control of their attacker."

"My god . . . " Grace breathed, "that's terrible."

"But not what happened here," Sam assured her, "Ed Gein died, there was no poisoning involved. And if he had been resurrected shortly after his death, why would the murders only begin now? No, someone brought him back recently. Finding out who is going to be the hard part, it's not like Gein has family around that cared about him."

"So where do we start then?"

"The college. You're going to see if there are any courses studying American killers . . . or even Ed Gein himself. Then look into the students, find out if any of them seemed to take a special interest in Gein. I'm going to come back out here and keep looking---" the loud ringing of his cell phone abruptly cut Sam off, and with a surprised gasp he flipped it open and held it to his ear. "Dean!?"

Grace's eyes widened, anxious but only able to listen to half of the conversation.

"Where are you? What's going on? Are you okay?" Sam's voice was hurried, his worry evident in his tight tone and the way he spat out each word, speaking quickly; he was silent for a moment, listening to Dean's voice, it seemed to have a calming effect on him. "Dean, is it Gein? . . . there's another guy? . . . hey, hey, hang in there, Dean! Stay with me."

Grace tensed, gripping the arm rest with one hand while reaching over and gently touching Sam's arm with her other.

" . . . okay, I understand . . . we're going right now." With those words, Sam swiftly pulled over into a small turn-around and whipped the car around back onto the road, beginning to drive in the opposite direction.

"Sam, what are you doing?" Grace asked.

But Sam only waved her off, dismissing her concerns in favor of pressing his ear closer to the phone, struggling to listen to his brother. "Dean, I got this, don't worry . . . we're gonna find you . . . yes, I'm with Grace . . . listen, Dean, Gein's not a spirit, his casket was empty . . . yeah, like Angela . . . I guess that's who Peter is . . . Dean? Dean! . . . no, Dean, stay awake," he pleaded, gripping the steering wheel even tighter. "You know how it is, concussion means you've gotta stay awake . . . yeah, I know it sucks out loud . . ."

"Sam, what's going on? Where are we going?" Grace now demanded, stiffening in her seat as Sam accelerated to dangerous speeds.

"Back to the cemetery," Sam snapped, giving her a brief look, one that clearly told her to back off, he was talking to his brother; sighing to herself, Grace settled into her seat and held on tight, wisely knowing there was no way to calm Sam now. He had a steely look of determination in his eyes, coupled with a strong set to his defined jaw; his entire demeanor had changed in a matter of minutes, going from "research mode" to "battle mode", Sam was done sitting around gathering information, and Grace could tell he had pushed all doubt from his mind about his mission. He was going to find his brother. And he was going to save him.

"SAM!!!"

Grace barely had enough time to scream his name before the beige car that came flying out from a hidden dirt road slammed into the Saturn; glass shattered inward, spraying Sam and Grace and leaving tiny cuts all over their exposed skin as they were jostled back and forth in their seats---Sam's knees crashing into the dashboard---the airblags deployed in a whoosh of air, snapping Grace back in her seat and preventing Sam from reaching the steering wheel. Tires squealed pitifully as the Saturn whirled around in a circle while Sam fought to get control of the car; the flimsy aluminum siding had been bent beyond repair and wrapped itself around the front, passenger-side wheel, restricting any kind of movement that Sam could try to make. Steam rose out of the engine and into the darkening sky just as the beige car backed up, and Grace caught sight of the two men in the front seat, both wearing eerie smiles on their weathered faces.

"Sam . . . " she breathed, realization dawning on her a split second before the older car pummeled into them once again, this time head-on. Grace pitched forward, the impact of the crash too much for her to resist, she hit the airbag and bounced off it, smacking her head against the edge of the window. Beside her, Sam slammed into his own window, his head causing a sickening crack as it connected with the glass; he grunted painfully as blood began to run down the side of his face and stain the color of his coat, his hands still gripping the steering tightly, fighting with the car in an effort to keep them from pitching over the side of the hill they were driving on.

"How are they still going?" Grace cried, pressing herself into her seat in an effort to remain still; her eyes were wide with fear, and focused on their attackers sitting on the road and staring at them.

"That's how those cars are," Sam gasped, wrestling with the car and finally bringing it to a stop mere inches away from the edge; he gripped her hand and opened his door, dragging them both out as he spoke: "That's an old Coronet, it's made out of good metal, it won't crumple like nowaday's cars . . . and it'll run forever. Now let's go!"

The Coronet's engine roared almost angrily as Sam ran with Grace right behind him, jumping into the thick woods and taking cover behind the trees. "Stay down!" Sam ordered, pushing her to the soft, wet ground as he pulled the .45 out from the back of his pants, shocking Grace once again. Sam took a steady position, bracing himself against the tree and aiming carefully at the Coronet as it sped down the road in their direction; the gunshot rang out, startling Grace slightly, and the bullet whizzed through the air, implanting itself into the front driver's-side tire and sending the Coronet spinning out of control.

Sam stepped out from the cover of the forest, keeping the .45 leveled at the vehicle and his gaze sharp, his hands steady around the grip and his finger wrapped around the trigger ready to pull. The passenger door opened and the eldest of the men stepped out, his grizzled face glaring furiously at Sam from underneath his ratty cap, Sam tensed, feeling his blood chill and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Don't move!" he shouted, focusing his aim on the man, who kept right on walking. "I said, freeze, asshole! You come one step closer and I'll shoot!"

The man only smirked in an infuriating way, making Sam want to shoot all the more; he took one more step, and Sam pulled the trigger slowly, barely feeling the weapon's kick as it dislodged another bullet and sent it into the leg of the man. He fell onto his back, barely wincing at all, then jumped back onto his feet and lunged at Sam before he could squeeze off another round; their bodies connected and they landed on the slick road with a soft thump, both men grunting at the impact, Sam's gun flying to the side and clattering as it landed.

"Gein," Sam spat out, just before the man's fist connected with his cheek and slammed his head into the road.

"That's right, Sam," Gein chuckled, bringing his fist down into the bridge of Sam's nose. Blood spurted up into Gein's face and Sam gasped as he felt the fragile bones snap, but he quickly regained himself, managing to get his legs under Gein and kick him off; not giving Gein enough time to recover, he gave a swift kick to the man's injured leg, finally producing a satisfying cry of pain.

Sam dropped to his bruised knees, straddling Gein and landing a few hard punches directly to his opponent's face, leaving bloody welts behind; his knuckles burst open and began to bleed, but he wasn't even close to stopping. That is, until he heard the door behind him open and slam close; he got to his feet quickly and turned around, sneering at the blonde-haired man standing a few feet away from him, a knife in his hand. Peter.

"Where's my brother?" he snarled, his voice animalistic and dangerous.

"You'll have to find him yourself. I'll never tell you."

"We'll see about that."

Sam took two long steps forward and hit Peter in the throat, doubling him over and forcing him to drop the knife; Sam's booted foot came up and sank into the pit of the man's stomach, then he brought his fists down onto the back of his neck, successfully downing him. He glanced in the direction of the woods, pleased to see Grace steadily sneaking from her safe hiding place and toward the gun that had landed on the rocky side of the road. He just hoped she knew how to use it.

He whirled around then, bringing his leg up just as Gein jumped at him, the heel of his boot smacked into Gein's jaw, spinning him around in a circle before he crashed to the ground; always aware of his surroundings, Sam turned back just as Peter got back to his feet, his fists clenched, still in the fight. Sam recognized the look in his enemy's eyes, one of pure determination, and hatred, Peter wasn't going to go down without one hell of a fight. And Sam was going to give it to him.

Swiftly, Sam landed two more punches to Peter's face, snapping his head back forcefully and feeling the crunch of the man's nose beneath his fist; Sam never liked violence, he wasn't made for the hunter's life like Dean and their father, but he had never been afraid of beating the shit out of someone if he had to. He grunted in pain as Peter struck out with his fist and hit him right in the tender cheekbone, pain shot through his face and left his eyes blurry with tears; two strong punches to his gut forced the air out of his lungs, leaving him exposed for another barrage of attacks.

But Sam had been well-trained---his father made damn sure of that---and he wasn't about to let a mere human take him down; taking a deep breath, he straightened and punched Peter in the nose again, then kicked him in the stomach, knocking him back to the ground.

"Don't move!" Grace's shrill, terrified voice echoed through the hillside, and brought all three men's gazes upon her trembling form, holding the .45 clasped between her hands, aimed directly at Peter; her eyes were wide with fear, but her aim was true, and Peter didn't move an inch. Sam smirked, nodding his approval to Grace---who took a few steps forward, keeping her eyes glued on Peter; Sam faced Gein again, preparing himself for more of the fight.

"Why are you doing this?" he gasped.

Gein's eyes flickered briefly with a flash of light, a slow smile seeped onto his wrinkled face, and instantly Sam was reminded of another insane redneck that liked to hunt people . . . and eat them.

He shuddered. "Where . . . is my brother?"

"Your brother is _dead,"_ Gein sneered, baring his rotted, yellow teeth.

In the blink of an eye, Sam hissed, rushing forward and grabbing Gein by his collar, then slamming him into the wet trunk of a tree; before anything could be done, he had whipped out the knives he always carried and buried both of them to the hilt in each of Gein's wrist, eliciting a cry of pain from the trapped man and a gasp of shock from Grace. She stared open-mouthed at the display of violence Sam was putting forth, obviously disturbed . . . and scared.

"Now," Sam started again, "where is he?"

"You can't kill me," Gein laughed, gasping through the pain, "not like this."

"No," Sam admitted, "but I know how to get the job done." A little lie never hurt. He reached over, twisting one of the knives so he heard the unmistakeable sounds of bones crunches and muscle tearing, blood trickled down between his fingers. "And believe me, I _will _kill you. And, if my brother is really dead, it won't be quick."

"That won't bring your brother back, Sammy-boy!" Peter called, propping himself up on his elbows even as Grace jerked the .45 at him threateningly. "He'll still be dead. He'll rot in hell because of you."

"You son of a bitch," Sam muttered, leaving Gein at the tree and taking a few strides over to Peter; he knelt on the road, wrapping a large hand around Peter's neck and slowly squeezing. "Eddie over there might not be afraid of death, he's been that route before . . . but you on the other hand. I'm willing to bet you'll squeal like a pig with just a little persuasion."

"Those women were nothing but low-life whores," Peter spat, "they didn't deserve life . . . do you know what those bitches did? What they wasted their God-given lives doing?"

"I don't care," Sam said, squeezing harder, not letting go till Peter gagged. "They're dead. And you're a sick bastard who kills old ladies and raises dead psycho killers. That's all I need to know."

"I let Eddie do whatever he wanted with them," Peter went on, relishing the sight of Sam's disgust, "as long as he killed them, as long as they got what was coming to them. Then he got to . . . play with them a bit. Make 'em up like his dear old momma." He paused. "Maybe dress up in their skin a little bit, too . . . make himself look real pretty."

"All right, you know what? I'm sick of this." Swiftly, Sam grabbed Peter's hand and gripped all four of his fingers, then snapped them backwards as far as they would go; Peter screamed, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, Grace winced and looked away. "I'm not fucking around!" Sam shouted, pressing his nose onto Peter's, his voice roaring angrily. "You're gonna tell me where he is. Or you're gonna die . . . right now."

-----------

Cold fingers crept their way up Dean's shirt, chilling his neck and then brushing his cheek before slapping gently, just enough to spark a bit of pain and awake him; his eyelids fluttered for a second as his vision slowly cleared, and once again, with consciousness came the pain. His hand throbbed mercilessly while the pain in his head made it impossible to focus on the elderly woman kneeling beside him, still stroking back his hair with a motherly touch.

"Wha . . . 's goin' on?" he slurred, barely able to form words.

"You must wake up," the woman whispered.

"He . . . he hit wi' a friggin' hammer . . . "

"Your brother needs your help."

"Sammy? Wha . . . happened? He okay?"

"You have to warn him."

"Warn him? 'Bout what?" Dean blinked, trying desperately to convince his body to cooperate, to do the things his mind wanted him to do. "What's wrong . . . with Sammy?" He sat up slightly, resting heavily on his elbows.

"Gein and Peter went to the cemetery," the woman sighed, softly. "Warn Sam . . . " as her voice trailed off, she flickered briefly, then disappeared in a flash of light, startling a groggy Dean.

"What the . . . " he muttered, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Gein . . . Peter . . . " the names sounded familiar, but he was having trouble even remembering what year it was, let alone who Gein and Peter were. Wait. Gein. Wasn't that the last name of the guy who inspired Leatherface? Huh. Well, _that _had to mean something. _Come on, Dean, think! Where the hell am I? Why the hell does my hand feel like someone---?_

"I'll be damned," he sighed, raising his bloody hand and staring open-mouthed at the hole driven through it. And just like that, all the memories of the pain and the suffering in that dark room came flooding back, and with it, a realization of what the spirit had been talking about, and who she was; Sam was out there somewhere, undoubtedly looking for him---and Gein. He had to find a way to let him know where Gein was headed. Silently, he sent his thanks to the spirit of Mary Hogan, who even in death watched over the victims of the man that had murdered her so many years ago.

Grunting in pain, he managed to sit all the way up, and then pulled himself to his feet by grasping the wall; his cell phone was probably around the house somewhere, he doubted Gein or Peter would've smashed it. _Surprised they even had the mind to take it off me! _Chuckling quietly at his own thought, he continued dragging his feet across the room and into the hallway, his aching eyes straining to see in the dark. A glimmer of light caught his eye from a table sitting next to a broken window, and after a moment, he recognized the shape of his cell phone half-concealed beneath a bloody shirt.

"Yahtzee."

Stumbling over to the table, he snatched up the phone and speed-dialed Sam's number, holding it to his ear with a shaking hand.

_"Dean!?" _came Sam's shocked gasp. _"Where are you? What's going on? Are you okay?" _

"Sammy, I'm in some . . . cabin. I-I dunno where . . . "

_"Dean, is it Gein?"_

"Yeah. And, uh, some other . . . "

_"There's another guy?"_

"Yeah, creepy-lookin' dude . . . " Dean gasped quietly, his head suddenly spinning and a bought of dizziness overwhelming him; he staggered into the table, knocking it over and slumping to the ground. "Shit, Sam . . . "

_"Hey, hey, hang in there, Dean! Stay with me." _

"Sam," Dean whispered, "Gein . . . he's, uh, goin' to the cemetery . . . you have to get there."

_"Okay, I understand . . . we're going right now."_

Dean vaguely heard Grace's worried voice in the background, then the squeeling of tires as Sam turned the car around and took off in the opposite direction. "Sam, be careful. This Gein's a scary son of a bitch . . . he friggin' kicked my ass."

_"Dean, I got this, don't worry."_

"I dunno where I am, Sam . . . "

_"We're gonna find you."_

"Is . . . Grace there?"

_"Yes, I'm with Grace_ . . . _listen, Dean, Gein's not a spirit, his casket was empty---"_

"Like . . . Angela."

_"Yeah, like Angela_ . . . _I guess that's who Peter is, the guy who resurrected Gein."_

"Seems like it . . . " Dean's eyes fluttered for a second, then slowly drifted closed, he let out a breath just loud enough for Sam to hear. And, apparently, get worried.

_"Dean? Dean! . . . no, Dean, stay awake."_

"Can't, Sam . . . I'm tired . . . "

_"You know how it is, concussion means you've gotta stay awake."_

"Sucks---"

_"Yeah, I know it sucks out loud."_

Again, Dean heard distant voices as Grace spoke and Sam snapped something in return, he smirked fondly, his little brother was getting into one of those moods, ready to take on the world if that's how it needed to be. That was his Sammy . . .

_"SAM!!!"_

Grace's terrified scream came through the connection loud and clear, and jerked Dean back to reality; tires squealed and glass shattered as Grace screamed, the sounds were unmistakeable, they were crashing into something, and it was a disaster. He lost his connection just as he heard Grace's voice again and metal ramming into metal, then there was nothing but static, and then nothing.

"Sam."

The word was spoken breathlessly, laced with an edge of panic that Dean had felt far too many times for his twenty-eight years on the Earth; adrenaline rushed through his veins, erasing the pain and leaving him energized, but he knew it was only temporary and he would have to take advantage of it quickly. Getting to his feet, he hurried through the house and burst outside into the bright light, growling when he felt cold snowflakes land on his hair and saw the snow-coated ground. _I hate the snow._

It didn't take long---only a walk around the back of the house and into an old shed---to find the Impala, of course the keys weren't in, and he grumbled some more as he tore apart the steering panel and was forced to hotwire his beloved muscle car. In a few seconds, the powerful engine roared to life, drowning out any other noises coming from the tiny area and filling the room with exhaust fumes; the rear tires spun on the muddy surface for a momen when Dean gunned it, then managed to catch and the car took off like a bat of hell, tearing down the dirt road. His injured hand hurt too bad to use to steer, but it was a pain in the ass trying to manuever the dangerous country hands with just one, so Dean gritted his teeth and placed his hand on the thin wheel; the Impala was his pride and joy, but she had never been good in winter weather. A couple times the wheels slipped on the slick surface and the enormous car fishtailed, but each time Dean managed to wrestle her back into compliance, after years of driving her back and forth across the country, it was as if he had become one with the car. Even his dad used to say he was born to drive.

It already felt like he'd been driving for an hour, when realistically he knew it had barely been five minutes, but the adrenaline had worn off for the most part, and his head was spinning again, blurring his vision. He glanced at the speedometer, frowning at the numbers he saw . . . _5 5 5 5??? What the hell? _

At the moment he realized what was happening, he managed to brake severely in an effort to avoid a crash he was certain was coming . . . and then completely lose consciousness.


	8. Chapter 7

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_**Chapter Seven**_

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"You're gonna tell me where he is. Or you're gonna die . . . right now."

Sam certainly was a menacing character, towering over the trembling, prone figure of Peter as Grace stood aside, the fear in her eyes now directed toward Sam, instead of Gein and Peter; Ruby smirked and folded her arms, stretching the tiny, dark red leather jacket she wore. "That's it, Sam," she whispered, narrowing her eyes in sick anticipation as Sam tightened his grip on Peter's neck. He could snap it in an instant, with very little effort, as easy as snapping a wishbone or a twig . . . but he wouldn't, she knew, at least not until he knew where Dean was. Letting out a huff of annoyment and disgust, she rolled her eyes, thinking of the elder brother and all the trouble he was somehow able to cause, he was the only thing keeping Sam grounded, she was certain of it. If Sam didn't have Dean, _she _would . . . all to herself.

Azazel had gone about it all wrong, she now realized, trying to force Sam into turning into something he was not; the youngest Winchester possessed the most humanity and compassion out of the bunch, always had, and he wouldn't just "go darkside" on his own. No, throwing him into a ghost town with a bunch of other "special" children and expecting him to slaughter them was too much . . . Sam would rather die than kill someone to save his own life. But to save his _brother's _life. That was another story. Hell, he'd already done it once . . . although he didn't know that Roy LeGrange was actually killing people while healing others.

Yes, Sam would do _anything _for his brother.

Her gaze shifted to Peter and focused in on him, he was the guinea pig in her experiment while staying in the pathetic, little town of Shorewood Hills; and to be fair, she couldn't have chosen a more twisted, evil individual. _It's not like I'm making him kill poor old Granny, or sweet little Mary-Sue. _She smiled, tilting her head slightly. _Well, not this time anyway. _But if she could convince Sam to murder Peter instead of turning him into the police . . . that was one step closer to revealing the Sam she wanted. She needed.

Nodding her approval as things continued to work themselves out, Ruby uncrossed her arms and walked away, her back turned to them. She would bide her time and wait for the perfect moment, and then she would strike.

But it wasn't the time . . . not just yet.

------------

"Oh my god, Sam," Grace whimpered, nearly dropping the handgun she held, it suddenly felt very heavy. "Please, don't." The man that only minutes ago she had trusted to save her life, now terrified her just as much as any psycho killer or reanimator; Sam's eyes had a glint that was dark and dangerous, and his hands didn't tremble at all as they continued to grip Peter's neck, threatening to snap it in an instant.

"Grace," Sam said, slowly, "I'm sorry . . . but back off."

"If you kill him like this," Grace pleaded, "you'll regret it later. You're not like this, Sam. Please."

"You don't know who I am," Sam said, shooting her a look quickly. "Or what I'm capable of. He has my brother somewhere! Dean needs my help."

"I understand---"

"No, you don't!"

Grace swallowed the lump that had developed in her throat, her entire body as tense as if Sam's hands were wrapped around _her _throat; she caught a flicker of movement to her right and glanced into the woods just in time to see a tall, blonde woman turn and walk away. "What the . . . ?" she muttered, knitting her brow in confusion. A disconcerting chill ran up her spine, the woman hadn't appeared frightened or even confused, in fact, she wore a smug expression, as if she knew what was happening, and had planned it that way.

"Grace," Sam spoke, "go keep an eye on Gein. Now."

Was it that he wanted her to guard Gein, or just not see what he was about to do? Nodding numbly, Grace walked across the street, keeping her eyes on the pinned figure of Ed Gein, his arms outstretched across the large trunk of a tree; a dripping sound caught her attention, and she looked over to gaze upon in dismay the crumpled Saturn, soaking wet as snow continued to fall on it and slide to the ground. _How did we end up here anyway? _she wondered, silently. Less than a half-hour ago they were well on their way to investigating a big lead, they had the upperhand, they were calm and focused.

She heard Sam from behind her, but it was far-away, as if she was dreaming it or listening from another place; Sam's voice was quiet, she couldn't understand what he was saying, but she heard the sickening snap loud and clear. "Sam!" she gasped, whirling around, expecting to see Peter's head twisted at an awkward, his eyes wide and unseeing.

To her surprise, Peter was laying on his side clutching his arm and crying softly, Sam glaring down at him; a jagged bone was sticking out of Peter's exposed arm, and blood was dripping from the wound. Sam was still holding onto Peter's wrist, his foot digging into the man's broken arm mercilessly.

"Okay, okay!" Peter cried, sniffling as his nose ran and tears fell down his cheeks. "I'll tell you . . . I'll tell you, just please . . . "

"Out with it," Sam demanded, kneeling next to him again.

"Peter---" Gein started, his voice seeping with anger.

Grace brought the gun up again and pointed it directly at Gein's head. "Don't move, don't talk," she ordered, though her voice still shook precariously.

"We left him in a . . . cabin," Peter sighed, "about five miles west of here. Down the road we came from."

"Is he hurt?"

"He's alive."

"Is he _hurt?" _Sam gripped Peter's wrist even harder, squeezing till he winced painfully.

"We roughed him up . . . a bit," Peter wheezed, "he'll survive."

"You'd better hope he does." Sam stood up, letting out a breath he'd been holding a long time and turning his attention to the Coronet sitting still on the road. "There a spare tire in the trunk of that car?"

"Yeah . . . but you might've bent the rim when you blew it off!" Peter hissed, his eyes flashing. He was shut up immediately by Sam's boot kicking him harshly in the leg, and folded in on himself once again, grimacing against the pain; Sam stalked toward the Coronet, pausing a moment to snatch the keys out of the ignition, then went around to the rusty trunk it was practically falling apart. But sure enough, there was a rough-looking spare in the back, but it seemed like it would work, so he lifted it out and went about changing the blown tire. As much as he hated to admit it, Peter was right, there was a good chance he had damaged the entire wheel by shooting out the tire---he could only hope the bullet had lodged itself into the tire before inflicting any real damage.

Sam was no expert in cars, but his father had made sure he was at least proficient in changing a tire; discovering a rusty, old jack in the backseat, he set everything up quickly and in no time had positioned the spare in place of the blown tire. Thinking quickly, he ran over to the Saturn and dug around till he found his cell phone laying near the gas pedal, scratched but in otherwise decent shape.

"Peter," he snapped, "where's Dean's car?"

"At the cabin," Peter muttered.

"Is it damaged?"

"No . . . it'll run."

Sam nodded. "Good." Without a word, he walked up to Grace and grabbed the gun from her hands, then went over and hit Peter over the head with it, knocking him out cold; in a few minutes, he had stuffed the man into the trunk of the Coronet and had hurried over to stand in front of Gein, contemplating what to do with him. He couldn't very well leave him stuck to a tree, but he wasn't sure the trunk would even hold him---zombies seemed to have super-strength, for all he knew, Gein might be able to punch right through the metal.

"Guess we'll just have to take a chance," he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear; louder, he said: "If you make _any _move, I'll make you wish you hadn't."

"You think you can scare me?"

"Did you see your little friend over there?" Sam questioned, "that's gonna look like a walk in the park when I'm done with you. Understand?"

"The work of God cannot be stopped," Gein whispered, "I was dead, and He brought me back to continue his work. My God---"

"He's not _your _God." Sam grabbed the knife buried in Gein's left wrist and slowly dragged it out, ripping through flesh and eliciting a pained moan from the trapped man; gritting his teeth, he positioned Gein's hand against his back and plunged the knife deep in. He did the same for the right hand. "And you coming back had _nothing _to do with God."

Grace looked away, covering her mouth with her freezing hand. _Makeshift handcuffs. _She stepped aside as Sam pushed Gein across the road and forced him into the trunk along with Peter, then stood quietly and waited while Sam started up the car and sat in the driver's seat. Finally, he looked back up and at her: "We're going to get my brother. Grab the first aid kit out of your car, then get in. When we're done I'll take you home."

Grace nodded. "Okay."

It was sick, and she knew it, but as Grace made her way over to the car and climbed into the seat next to Sam, she almost felt sorry for Peter and Gein if Dean wasn't in the condition Sam liked. They would be in for a world of hurt.

------------

Dean awoke to the smell of pine filling his senses, and cold air nipping at his skin, it only took a moment for realization to sink in and make him remember where he was, and what was going on; he started to shiver then, laying there stretched out across the benchseat of the Impala. To his relief, he didn't see any steam floating into the air from the shiny, black hood, nor did he hear any dripping from below. _Maybe I finally caught a lucky break, _he thought, wryly.

Groaning aloud, he gripped the steering wheel and used it as leverage to pull himself up and get a better look at his abused car, he hoped that it had stalled itself out before the lack of gas managed to damage it's inner workings. There was no such thing as fuel injection back in 1967, and letting the car idle for even as short of a time as five minutes could cause serious damage . . . luckily, most of the time it just stalled. And that seemed to be what had happened.

He got out of the car slowly and took in his surroundings with the alertness of any soldier, the Impala's front wheels were in a shallow ditch, while the back ones remained on the road---the car's rear-wheel drive most likely wouldn't have any trouble getting out of that. The only exterior damage seemed to be a couple scratches on the chrome bumper, nothing a little loving buffing wouldn't get rid of; sighing his relief, Dean turned and slid back into his seat. He hadn't forgotten what the spirit had said, nor the terrible sounds he'd heard over the line while on the phone with Sam, for all he knew Sam could be trapped in a crumpled mess of modern technology while Gein and Peter prepared to do God-knows-what to him. His head felt clearer, while it still pounded infuriatingly, and he felt confident that he could navigate the old country roads and find his way to Sam; he easily got the car started and revved the engine a bit, feeding it the much-needed gas, then shifted gears and stepped on the pedal. Some time had passed since the accident, and the snow had stopped falling, the dirt road that had been so muddy before was hardening up, making it much easier for the car to pull itself from the ditch, although the tires did spin a bit before doing so.

Finally back on the road, the Impala accelerated past the snow-covered trees, kicking up rocks and mud, filling the forest with the rumble of her engine; he was no longer seeing double, and when he glanced down at the spedometer again it read a clear 45. There was no point in flooring it and trying to get to Sam quicker at the risk and crashing again, slow and steady was the way to go, even though it made him itch and yern to go faster.

A beige car came into view as he rounded a corner, and his blood ran cold when he recognized it as the vehicle Gein drove, he'd briefly caught a glimpse of it back at the cabin; he braced himself for either a race, or an attempt to run him off the road. What he _didn't _expect was the car to suddenly veer to the side, blocking the entire road, and a second later Sam to jump out, calling his name. He pressed his foot to the brake, spinning the steering wheel quickly and skidding to a stop only a foot or two away from Sam; he smiled weakly through the passenger's window, his eyes locking with Sam's in an expression that neither needed a translation for: _It's good to see you, bro._

Gingerly, the pain now returning full-force, he pulled on the handle and opened the creaky door, stepping outside and turning to look over the roof of the Impala at Sam. "Took you long enough," he gasped, smiling even wider.

"My god, Dean," Sam sighed, "are you okay?"

"Give me a cup o' Joe and a good night's sleep . . . and I will be."

Sam walked around the front of the car, concern etched across his face as he looked Dean up and down. "Maybe a couple Aspirin and a bandage for that hand, too," he suggested, gently taking Dean's arm and inspecting the jagged wound through his palm. "Jesus, Dean . . ."

"Yeah . . . that sucks."

"Bastards."

"Speaking of those bastards," Dean said, drawing Sam's attention away from his injuries. "Where the hell are they? And what the hell happened to you? Why are you driving Gein's car?" _Holy damn, Dean, slow down, _he scolded himself as his head began to spin again.

"They're, uh, in the trunk." Sam smiled almost sheepishly.

"The _trunk?" _Dean laughed, "dude, that's awesome."

"And we got run off the road," Grace said, stepping out of the car, "they totaled my car."

Dean's eyes widened. "You guys okay? Sammy?"

"We're fine," Sam assured him, "just a couple bruises, that's all." He hesitated, glancing at the trunk. "We've gotta figure out how to kill this guy, something tells me Peter's not the ancient ritual type. This is different."

"Perfect." Dean ran his hand down his face. "Well, sounds like we've got a lot of work to do."

_"I've _got work to do," Sam amended, _"you _are going back with Grace and getting some rest. And no arguing with me, you're beat to hell."

"I'm not leaving you alone with Gein," Dean insisted.

"I'll keep him locked in the trunk."

_"No,_ Sam."

"Dean---"

A loud bang from the back of the Coronet startled the boys, Gein had smashed his foot through the hole alongside of the quarter panel, punching through the rust and creating a hole big enough for him to squeeze through, cutting himself in the process; he weaseled his way out of the trunk as Dean and Sam ran to confront him, but by the time they got there he had already recovered himself (and apparently removed the knives stuck in his back) and was ready for a fight. Dean punched him in the jaw, nearly spinning him around, but he turned and landed a fierce fist right into his nose, then kicked him in the stomach, knocking him aside. Sam growled and launched himself at Gein, swiftly hitting him in the stomach twice, then across the side of his head with his elbow; he never even saw the blow coming, but felt it when his leg exploded with pain and gave out from under him. He fell to the ground, a knife buried a good inch into his thigh, he glared up as Gein turned and ran into the woods, but reached over to stop Dean when he tried to get up and go after him.

"He'll kill you," he said, sharply, restraining his brother.

Dean sighed, sitting back on his butt and rubbing his abs tenderly. "You okay, Sam?" he asked, "he didn't get you too bad, did he?"

"No, I'll be okay." Groaning, Sam pulled the knife out quickly and then pressed his hand to bleeding wound. "Gah . . . that son of a bitch."

"You're telling me."

"Here," Grace said, as she walked over, the first aid kit in her hand.

"Thanks." Sam took the kit, wrapping the wound up efficiently in a matter of minutes, then allowing Dean to help him stand; his leg was unsteady, nearly giving out on him again. "I guess you're driving, Grace. Can you handle a car like that?" He gestured to the Impala, smiling his challenge.

"My dad used to drive a muscle car like that," Grace said, "taught me how to drive in the backyard."

Dean smirked. "Well, you scratch my baby and I'll turn you over to Dean myself," he warned, winking; he walked back to the Impala slowly, pain still shooting through his body, he took his seat on the driver's side of the car, positioning the Impala as Grace moved the Coronet out of the way.

"I guess we can't just leave Petey in the trunk, huh?" Dean called out.

"He's just a human." Sam shrugged. "We'll bring him back and lock him up in Grace's basement or something." He looked over to the young doctor as she got out of the car. "You're definitely a part of this now, sorry to have dragged you in."

"Sam, _I'm _the one who insisted I come along. Don't blame yourself." Grace let out a shaky breath, going to the Impala. "I just want this to be over."

"Amen to that," Dean agreed, hopping out and walking over to the trunk with Sam to retrieve Peter; with some difficulty, they managed to get him out and drag him over to the Impala. "A trunk full of weapons probably isn't the best place for this guy," Dean reminded Sam as he headed for the back end.

"You want me to sit in the backseat with him?" Sam asked.

"I'm just saying . . . "

Sam rolled his eyes. "All right, fine. You have a point."

A few minutes later, they were all settled into the car, with Grace adjusting the seat and getting herself comfortable before sliding the wires together and hotwiring the car; Dean chuckled, leaning against the window, letting his eyes droop closed. "Wouldn't have figured you for the carjacking type, Doc."

"And you'd be right," Grace replied, "but I put two-and-two together . . . figured if I rubbed those wires together something might happen."

Sam laughed. "Well, that's better than the 'I had two older brothers' excuse," he said, "at least you're honest." He stretched forward and rested a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing it silently, once again passing on a message without needing any words; his fear for Dean hadn't let up since he woke up that morning, and the relief of seeing him safe and sound was intense. They were back together again.

And they were going to finish it.


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Special thanks to my wonderful beta, Mary T., luv you!**

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_**Chapter Eight**_

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Sam hissed painfully as the drops of peroxide bubbled around the wound in his leg, fizzing a white foam and stinging, letting him know the liquid was getting the job done; given the choice, he would opt not to use peroxide, which was actually a poor sterilizer and promoted scar tissue, but there wasn't much laying around Grace's house. He was lucky enough that she had a needle and thread they could use to sew it up. He grimaced one more time, then wiped away the excess peroxide and bandaged up the wound tightly; it was nothing serious, and would heal relatively quickly, but for a day or two it was definitely going to hurt like hell and give him a significant limp.

A knock on the bathroom door startled him slightly as he jumped off the edge of the bathtub, he slipped on the tile floor and had to reach out for the wall in order to stay upright. "Uh, yeah?" he called out, recovering. "Come in."

Grace opened the door slowly and stepped in, her movements hesitant, at the sight of Sam standing in her bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of dark blue boxers and still dripping wet from his shower, her pale cheeks were instantly aflame; Sam blushed as well, dipping his head as he realized what had happened. "Sorry, Grace," he said, "not really used to having a girl around."

"It's okay." Grace folded her arms protectively over her chest. "I, um, was just checking in to see if you were okay."

"Yeah, yeah . . . it's no big deal," Sam assured her, reaching over and grabbing his pants off the counter, suddenly very anxious to get dressed. "Uh, how's Dean?"

"Asleep. Passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow."

"Good. We'll have to check on him though . . . every couple hours." Sam paused as he pulled one leg of his pants up. "But I guess you already knew that, huh?"

Grace shrugged. "I'm not that kind of doctor, Sam," she admitted, "but I know my fair share about concussions and minor bumps 'n bruises. We have quite a few of those in a mental hospital."

"I can imagine."

"Well . . . if you're done in here. I'd like to take a bath. It's been a long day and I could really use some relaxation time." She turned and began to take down the towel hanging on the wall, sinking her fingers into the soft texture. "Oh---and I peeked into the basement, Peter's awake but he looks secure all tied up."

"I'll check on him to be sure." Sam opened the door, but hesitated before stepping out of the room. "Grace, listen . . . I'm sorry you had to see all that today." Recent memories of him snapping Peter's arm flashed in his mind, the sound of the bone breaking, Peter's voice screaming in pain. He shuddered. "It's not something I'm proud of," he added.

"I thought you were going to kill him," Grace said, softly.

Sam swallowed, his stomach tightening. "I was."

"Have you ever killed a person before?"

" . . . yes."

Grace squeezed the towels in her hands even tighter, something that didn't go unnoticed by Sam, who felt a twinge of pain at her obvious fear directed to him; he hadn't meant to scare her, but lately he seemed to be doing that more and more often to people. He gazed down at her sorrowfully, watching as she searched for the words to say (what _did _you say to someone who just admitted to killing a fellow human being anyway?); she shifted her weight from foot-to-foot nervously.

"But," she began, "they were . . . evil. Right? Like Peter?"

"Possessed, actually," Sam replied, "by demons."

Her eyes widened, then abruptly closed as she brought a hand to her heart. "My god . . . I-I didn't even know that was real." She forced a small smile onto her face and looked at Sam again. "Is everything in horror movies real?"

Sam chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully for a second. "Dracula."

Grace smiled again, this time a bit more genuine; but gradually, the smile faded from her face and the awkwardness returned, so thick both of them could sense it between them. Sam sighed, knowing that any real friendship they might have formed had now drifted away and been replaced by only distrust and fear. He couldn't blame her. He had put on one hell of a scary show and had taken out his anger on her while he was at it.

"Well," he said, "I'm gonna get some research done . . . then turn in. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Sam," he walked away as she finished speaking, leaving her to stare after him for a second. She reflected on the complexity of the youngest Winchester, so gentle and compassionate normally, but transformed into a vicious killer when pressed; she had no doubt in her mind that he would've killed Peter, and from the look in his eyes at the time, maybe even enjoyed it. How was it possible for a man to have two different extremes in nature? _An angel and a devil._

She leaned over the porcelain bathtub and began running the hot water, steaming up the room in a matter of minutes and filling it with the scents of lavender and vanilla; one-by-one, she undid the buttons down the front of her oversized shirt, then slipped out of the baggy jeans she had hastily thrown on that morning after receiving Sam's urgent call. She scowled as she took out the hairband that held her hair in place and it fell around her shoulders, stiff and gross, having been soaked by the snow earlier. Oh god, she really needed a bath . . .

The warmth of the water sent a shock through her system as she stepped into the tub and eased herself down, her cold body rebelled for a moment, beginning to shiver violently before it adjusted and started to relax. Breathing deeply, she leaned her head back against the edge and ran her hands over her face, letting the droplets of water fall to her cheeks and run down her neck lazily. What a day. And what a day was still to come.

---

Out of the bathroom, Sam had made his way over to the guest room and peeked in: Dean lay on his back with one arm flung over the side of the mattress, his bandaged hand laying across his stomach as it steadily rose up and down with each breath. He looked peaceful for a change, his lips parted ever-so-slightly, his eyelashes dark against his pale, freckled cheeks; Sam smiled, then carefully shut the door. He walked over to the desktop computer Grace had set up in her study---a room that consisted of dark wood walls lined with packed bookshelves, an uncomfortable couch, and a messy desk---and loaded it up, waiting impatiently as Windows 98 started running.

From the other room, he heard bathwater running and Grace's soft sigh as she relaxed, he pressed his lips together in a tight smile. She definitely deserved a little relaxation. He winced, hating that an innocent woman had gotten caught up in the tangled mess that was the hunting world; realistically, of course, he knew that she had gotten involved long before she ever met them, but he couldn't help but feel bad about it anyway. Besides, he knew that she was completely freaked by what he'd almost done---and, in fact, _had _done---to Peter. That was something he wasn't going to be able to take back with a simple "I'm sorry".

The screen in front of him lit up to show a picture of beautiful rolling, grassy hills and a setting sun behind a tall tree; sitting beneath the tree was a much younger Grace, and beside her a young man, grinning from ear-to-ear. Grace was leaning against him with a happy smile on her teenage face, her hair hanging down to her waist, her clothing county and relaxed; Sam could only assume the young man was her brother, Keith, the one she had told him about. He stared at the picture respectfully for a moment, wondering about the man whom he would never meet---what he liked to do, how much he meant to his family and friends, who he aspired to be. But one could never spend too much time dwelling on a victim, if Sam had done that for every person he had seen killed in his lifetime, he would be in a mental institution constantly rocking himself and being haunted by the horrors in the world. He'd never even mourned his own mother. And barely his father.

Sniffling loudly, he ruffled his longish hair and cleared his throat, focusing back on the case instead of dwelling on the past; he still had yet to figure out what kind of ritual Peter used to resurrect Gein, and he wouldn't know till he woke up and Sam could interrogate him further. Until then, he might as well find every way to kill the living dead, whether it was myth or real, and whether or not it actually applied to the case at hand. One never could be too thorough. Minute after minute, he went through page after page of Google, finding stories of decapitation and bullets through the heart, setting zombies on fire or . . .

"A _rocket launcher?"_

"Sounds like a good plan to me."

Sam twisted around in his feet and scowled at Dean, who stood leaning heavily against the door to the guest bedroom, resting his head on his outstretched arm; there were dark circles under his heavy-lidded eyes, and his breathing seemed shallow to Sam, who was instantly alarmed. He jumped to his feet and hurried over to his brother, gripping his arm to steady him as he swayed dangerously.

"What the hell are you doing out of bed?" he asked, firmly but somehow also gently.

"Woke up . . . couldn't get back to sleep." Dean winced, bringing his hand up to gently rub the back of his head. "I swear to God, I'm gonna kick that guy's ass."

"Yeah, okay, Rambo. Come on, let's get you to the couch at least." Sam slowly guided Dean over to the rugged couch and helped him sit down, concern spiking in his gut when his normally strong older brother groaned rather loudly. "Dean, what's wrong? What hurts?"

Dean rolled his eyes, then bent over as another pang shot through his battered head. "What _doesn't?" _he muttered.

"You've already taken three Aspirin," Sam said, "I can't give you any more."

"Yeah . . . I know." Dean sighed, wearily, stretching out on the couch, propping his elbow up on the arm and cupping his head in his good hand. "How's your leg?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"It's nothing." Sam sank down onto the couch next to Dean, his brow knitting together. "I'm worried about you."

"Sam . . . "

"Dean, you look like hell."

"Yeah, well . . . that kind of figures."

"How's your hand? It's not showing any signs of infection, is it?"

"Dude, I've been trying to sleep." Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Can't say I've really paid much attention to it . . . been trying to ignore it. Fucker tried to crucify me."

Sam rolled his eyes heavenward. _"Dean."_

"Sorry, sorry . . . forgot you were into all that religion stuff." Dean closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath, riding another wave of pain. "Man, this is just peachy keen. 'Bout as fun as going skinny dipping in a pool of acid." He opened his eyes slowly, staring at Sam through tiny slits of glittering green. "Any luck finding out how Peter pulled this off?"

"I was doing some research before you came in," Sam answered, "trying to find different ways of killing zombies. But I haven't talked to Peter yet."

"You'd better get to it."

Sam hesitated.

Dean smirked. "Go ahead, man . . . I don't need you to babysit me, I'll be fine." He looked around, his forehead suddenly wrinkling with confusion. "Where's Grace anyway?"

"Taking a bath."

"That's a nice visual." Dean winked at him, smiling in his sly way. "Thanks for that, Sammy."

"Dean, come on . . . "

"No, _you _come on. Admit it, she's a hottie." Dean thought for a second, while Sam continued to make faces down at him. "Not really my type, of course, kind of a prude. But you two seem to get along . . . well."

_"'Well'?" _Sam echoed, his eyebrows climbing steadily. "Dean, please don't say you're trying to 'hook me up' again---"

"I think she likes you."

Sam scoffed. "Maybe she did," he admitted, "but I'm definitely not the kind of guy she needs to get involved with---" he patted Dean's shoulder gently to silence him as he started to speak "---I'm gonna go and try to get Peter talk. Try to get some rest, okay? You really need it and . . . it would make me feel better." He turned and walked toward the basement door, barely hearing Dean's whine from the couch:

"God, you are _such _a Mother Hen."

---

Grace wiped a hand across the mirror and studied her reflection for a moment; the way a few strands of loose, wet hair hung down her face from underneath the towel wrapped around her head; how pale her face was without any makeup on, and the way she still trembled beyond her control. Shaking herself, she quickly dried off and dressed in her bathrobe, then walked out of the bathroom and glanced around, looking for Sam.

"He's in the basement," came a voice from the couch facing away from her.

"Dean?" Grace tilted her head slightly, watching as Dean sat up slowly and looked back at her. She had barely spent any time with the older Winchester, and suddenly she felt very exposed standing before him wearing only her robe, her wet hair hanging loosely around her neck.

Apparently sensing her discomfort, Dean averted his eyes as he spoke: "He said he was gonna talk to Peter. So that's where he is."

"Oh . . . how long ago did he go down there?"

Dean glanced up at the clock, then shrugged and let out a long yawn. "About . . . twenty minutes ago."

_And Peter still hasn't talked? _Grace thought, incredulously. She then amended her thoughts by silently adding: _Well, you haven't heard any screaming yet, have you? _She flinched at her own thoughts, wishing immediately that hadn't come to her mind, and that she could see Sam in the same light she had before. Still not speaking, she wondered if Dean knew how violent his brother got---it hadn't escaped her how gentle and different Sam was once they had found Dean; then again, maybe Dean was just like Sam. Or worse.

"Something bothering you, Doc?" Dean asked, bringing her out of her silent reverie.

Grace shook her head quickly. "No, nothing." _Should I go down there? What if it's even worse than before? It's odd enough having two strange men staying in my house . . . _

"You know," Dean spoke up, "I can . . . read people pretty well. At least, most of the time. And it's pretty obvious you've got something on your mind . . . now is it just how fucked up this whole thing is, or is it something else?"

_If I talk to him about it, will he think I'm being too judgemental or harsh? Will he resent me being afraid of his own brother? . . . Oh, to hell with it! If he doesn't know already he should. _"Actually," she said, aloud, "it's . . . your brother."

It was like pulling the fire alarm. Immediately, the exhaustion and pain in Dean's eyes vanished and he was transformed from weak and ill to strong and ready to defend his brother; she saw no anger in his eyes, but there was a clear warning there, and she would heed it. His voice slow and even, he pressed further: "What about him?"

Grace took a deep breath and walked into the study, stopping in the doorway and leaning against it as she went on: "I don't mean to . . . accuse him of anything. I realize you two have to be tough in order to survive. But when Peter and Gein attacked us, Sam kind of . . . well, to be frank, he got a little scary."

Dean swallowed. "'Scary'?"

"When he was asking Peter where you were," Grace explained, "and if you were okay . . . Peter wouldn't talk at first, so he . . . _persuaded _him. He threatened to kill him with his bare hands if he didn't talk, and then he told me to watch Gein so I wouldn't see. I-I heard a snap . . . and I thought he must've killed him." She paused to take another breath, feeling another wave of nausea upon her as she recalled the fear and horror of thinking Sam had killed Peter. "It was his arm. Sam had broken it so badly the bone was sticking out."

_"Sam _did that?"

"Yes."

Grace looked up, Dean's face was now stark white and his mouth was open in nearly an O-expression; for some reason, it pained her to see him in so much shock---_and pain?---_even though she barely knew him. Quickly, she went over to him and sat down on the opposite side of the couch, touching his shoulder gently, hoping to provide whatever it was he needed.

"So," she ventured, cautiously, "that's . . . _not _normal?"

Dean didn't turn his head, only look at her through the corner of his eyes, startling her with the intensity in them; it was clear he cared for his brother more than most people would ever care for anyone. She had the sneaking suspicion that if Sam committed murder, Dean would still fiercely protect him.

"Hunters are . . . tough," Dean said, "I've met some dudes that could put up one hell of a fight with Rocky Balboa . . . hell, they'd probably kick his ass." He smirked, as if remembering someone, but then the expression faded. "It's not that Sam is a weak guy, he's always been strong enough to do the job, and he's saved my ass more than once. But he's always had this thing about him . . . he wanted to trust people, and he never liked killing."

"It was . . . it felt like he enjoyed hurting Peter." Grace crossed her arms, rubbing them nervously. "I don't know. But it definitely didn't bother him any."

"Peter's an evil bastard," Dean said, rising to his brother's defense, "whatever Sam did to him . . . he had it coming."

"I know," Grace assured him, "it's just . . . Peter's a human being. He's evil, yes. But he's still _human."_

Dean sneered and cast his eyes up at the ceiling for a moment, Grace looked down, watching his good hand form into a fist and then relax over and over again. "Whoever said being human made you special anyway?" Dean wondered, "we kill spirits, and demons, and every other evil thing in the world. But when it comes to humans we're supposed to treat them differently. Why is that?"

"We have laws," Grace said, "to protect us and to punish people like Peter."

Dean laughed harshly. "'Officer, I'd like to report a crime'," he mocked, "'this man Peter, you see, he resurrected Ed Gein and has been murdering people. He should be punished!'" Shaking his head, he looked straight at Grace: "Do you really think that's how it's all gonna work? That we can just call the cops on Peter and he'll spend the rest of his life in prison?"

"So . . . you're going to kill him?"

Dean sighed, weariness seeping into him again. "I don't know. We'll figure something out." He snorted, amused. "Hell, maybe we'll just frame him for something and he'll get sent away for that! . . . but, Grace, you should know . . . it may come down to us killing him."

"I suppose so," Grace said, " . . . I don't think poorly of you two, Dean. You're both fine men who do a job many could never. I just don't like the thought of human beings killing other human beings."

"I don't like the thought, either."

As Dean finished, a cry of pain rose up from the basement and the two of them sprang to their feet and raced to door, nearly flying down the small flight of steps and hurrying into the wet room to see Sam kneeling next to Peter. He looked up.

"Dean, I told you---"

"Hey, man. I heard screaming and thought maybe Peter was pulling your hair," Dean said, holding up his hands, "can't blame me for coming to check it out."

Sam looked past Dean to Grace, who was once again staring at him with fright in her eyes. "What did you do to him?" she asked, softly.

"I reset his arm," Sam replied, "it'll get him to talk, but it's actually helping him." He glared down at Peter, who was gasping weakly. "Are you ready now?"

"For fuck's sake . . . _yes!"_

" . . . good."

Dean kicked Peter angrily, his steel-toed boot connecting with Peter's shin. "Talk," he ordered, "I'm sick of this."

Peter moaned, wheezing in pain for a second before speaking: "It was a hoodoo ritual. I, uh . . . my father was a hunter . . . he believed in all that shit. So I figured . . . I'd look it up. When I found out there was a chance it would work---" he smiled, his teeth flashing in the dull light and an evil glint shining in his eyes "---I just had to try."

"You sick bastard," Grace whispered.

"You're father was a _hunter?" _Sam nearly gasped.

"How do you think I know so much about your family, Sammy-boy?" Peter questioned, smirking, "word gets around . . . the community, y'know."

Sam and Dean glanced back at her, then Sam spoke: "Did you plan on killing those women? The ones at the hospital?"

Again, Peter smiled. "Do you know what that bitch did?" he sneered, "that . . . Frances. She was a _whore. _She didn't deserve her life. She married her husband because she was _pregnant. _Her daughter was born out of wedlock."

Dean raised one eyebrow quickly. "So you killed her?" he spat out.

"I worship a vengeful God."

"And what about Denise?" Grace demanded, her voice cracking, "or Joy? Where are they? They're good women, they don't deserve to be hurt!" She took a step forward, but Dean restrained her---whispering words inaudible to Peter and Sam.

"They're dead," Peter answered her, "dead and burning in the fires of Hell. Where they _belong."_

"Shut up," Sam snapped, gripping Peter's collar and slamming his head against the concrete wall. "How can we kill him? Gein."

"I-I don't know . . . "

A punch was thrown and landed soundly on Peter's lower cheek, leaving behind a red welt; Peter grunted. "I swear . . . I don't know," he muttered, spitting out blood and chips of a tooth.

"You'd better think _real _hard," Dean warned, "'cuz if we find out you knew something that you didn't tell us . . . it won't be pretty, I promise."

Heeding his older brother's words, Sam placed his hand on Peter's broken arm, applying gentle pressure till the man squirmed uncomfortably.

"All right," he whispered, " . . . fire. I looked it up in case . . . in case I ever lost control of him. Set him on fire and he'll die."

"You're gonna burn in Hell for what you've done," Dean said, his voice cold steel.

Peter levelled him with a severe gaze, no longer afraid. Very slowly, his lips spread into a sickening smile.

"Then I guess I'll see you there . . . "


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: As always . . . thank you to Mary T., for being an awesome beta!**

--------------------------------

_**Chapter Nine**_

--------------------------------

It had only taken a few days before Dean could stand up without his head spinning and his vision blurring so bad he couldn't see, but to Dean it felt like he'd been holed up for a month, weak as a kitten and bored out of his mind; Sam and Grace had both tried to convince him to rest for longer, but they all knew just as well as he did that there was no time to waste. Gein was a maniac, and there was no telling when he would kill again, no matter how risky it would be to come out of hiding; it was clear he couldn't see past his own sick desires to exact justice on women, and would do whatever it took to complete his mission.

It was early in the morning, the sun was just barely rising and casting it's eerie, orange glow over the countryside; Dean sat on Grace's porch, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other still cradled protectively to his stomach, tightly bandaged. He watched Sam as the younger brother bent over the trunk of the Impala, securing the weapons within and making sure they had all the needed supplies for their hunt; in order to kill Gein they had to set him on fire, but they had to be able to catch---and restrain---him first. Sam's face was pinched in an expression of concentration, completely involved in and serious about his work; Dean smiled softly, leaning back and trying to relax in the wooden swing. The cool breeze bit at his skin and caused goosebumps to rise up his arms, he blinked as a small bird landed on the railing and chirped happily, fluffing her grey feathers and puffing out her tiny chest; from behind him, the screen door squeeked open and Grace stepped out, wearing her nightgown and wrapping a blanket around her.

"Getting an early start?" she assumed, lazily sipping on her steaming coffee.

"Sam likes to," Dean replied, stifling a yawn, "he's big on these morning things."

Grace smirked. "How are you?" she asked, her eyebrows pulling together in a frown, "you're still pale."

"Once all this is over I'll take it easy---" Dean winked up at her, flashing a smile "---for like a day or two." Pain throbbed in his hand, surprising him; caught off-guard, he couldn't hide the brief flinch that appeared on his face, or how he brought his injured hand in closer to his body, instinctively protecting it. The action did not escape Grace's attention though, and she visibly had to restrain herself from expressing her concern, knowing that Dean would only brush it off and refuse to accept any help she would offer. Not that she could do a thing anyway.

At that moment, Sam slammed the trunk shut and turned, walking toward the two of them on the porch, a thoughtful scowl on his face; he shivered slightly, then rubbed his red hands together and blew into them before stuffing them deep into the pockets of his coat. He stubbed the toe of his boot against a small rock and stumbled just as he reached the steps, cursing softly, he trotted up and stood in front of Dean.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Yep. Let's do this thing and get it over with . . . finally!" Pressing his lips together, Dean stood up, grabbing the black bag that was seated next to him, packed with a sawed-off shotgun and a large knife; he managed a grim smile and touched Grace's sleeve, almost shyly. "We'll see you tonight, Doc."

"You guys be careful," Grace warned, "and call me as soon as it's over---I wanna know when I can relax."

"Don't worry about us," Dean said, confidently, "we're old pros."

Her eyes drifting down to Dean's hand, and then to the leg that Sam was still favoring, Grace spoke, her voice was dry: "Well, even 'old pros' slip up from time to time. So just watch each other's backs, I'd hate for anything to happen to you."

"Thanks for all your help, Grace," Sam said, "we really appreciate it."

"Yeah, you would've made one hell of a hunter," Dean added.

Grace smiled, but rolled her eyes. "Thanks . . . but I think I'll stick to psychology for now." She reached over and slapped Sam's hand firmly. "Get going now, you don't have all day."

Sam nodded, then placed his hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed before walking back to the Impala; Dean watched him for a second, a proud smile playing on his heart-shaped lips for a moment. No matter what happened in the future, what Sam was forced to do or not do, his little brother could never be knocked down in Dean's eyes; something Grace could tell as she watched Dean watching Sam, something she also understood.

Finally, Dean glanced back at Grace and smiled again, then followed Sam and crawled into the passenger side of the car, grumbling about not being able to drive his baby while Sam glared at him; the engine roared to life and a second later the car was filled with the sounds of a Led Zeppelin song, bringing another scowl to Sam's face. Dean laughed, settling down in the seat and resting his head back, breathing deeply, evenly; Sam eased his foot onto the gas and took off, backing out of Grace's driveway and onto the road.

The previous day, after a little more persuasion, Dean had gotten Peter to open up to him about the further plans he and Gein had made concerning the women at Mendota (Dean had insisted on being the one to interrogate Peter, restricting Sam to researching on the computer). Peter mentioned a name: Natasha Davis; a name which yielded a damning result when Sam looked her up. The girl had been only sixteen when she got pregnant by her high school boyfriend, she was living in a small town twenty miles south of Shorewood Hills at the time, and the editor of their local church's paper had posted a hateful column ridiculing the poor girl when she opted to have an abortion. Not long after the paper was published, Natasha fled the town and never returned; no one in Shorewood Hills or Madison ever found out about her past---it was a mystery how Gein or Peter knew.

"Sounds like someone Peter would love to 'punish'," Dean had said, his voice dripping with contempt; he had never believed that abortion was a suitable way of dealing with unplanned pregnancies, his father had raised him to believe one should take responsibility for their actions, but nor was he the kind of man to take out his own moral beliefs on another who disagreed with him. Natasha was a teenager at the time, scared, with most likely very little encouragment and help from her family. It wasn't hard to imagine how she came to make her decision.

Back in the present, Dean ripped himself from his thoughts of the startling discovery, he blinked a few times to clear his surprisingly blurry vision, then muttered: "So . . . we ready for this?"

It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Sam answered anyway: "Ready as we'll ever be, I guess. Though I still think you should've taken it easy for at least a couple more days---" he shot a look at his brother, who remained slumped in his seat, his face a mask of weariness of pain "---you look like shit." As if on cue, a sudden jolt of pain went through his leg and he grunted, bringing down one hand to rub the wound tenderly.

"Uh-huh. Listen, Sam, if you feel like you need another day to get that leg up and---"

"This isn't about me, Dean," Sam cut him off, he was annoyed, but there was still a hint of amusement in his voice. "A little flesh wound has never kept me from doing the job before---"

"And neither has a concussion for me," Dean interrupted, smugly.

"That's because you're skull is so damn thick."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean sighed very quietly, content, he rubbed his stubble-covered chin as they drove by an abandoned old gas station, looking at the sign and chuckling to himself: _Ninety-five cents a gallon! Imagine that. _He had to admit, despite his hesitancy in the beginning, he had developed a sort of fondness for the small town that Grace called home; perhaps not for the people within it, but he had to respect and admire the beauty of land, the wildness of it all. He had been to rural areas before, but something about the crisp air and beautiful skies in Shorewood Hills drew him in; deep inside, he was most definitely a country boy, completely unsuited for the crowded, dirty cities his job sometimes forced him to visit.

"So what do you think about the Doc?" he asked, absent-mindedly, focusing more on the blur of the trees as they went by, and the purr of the Impala's engine.

"Huh? . . . Grace?" Sam was obviously startled by Dean's question, his face instantly flushed a shade or two redder, and he shrugged far too heavily. _Overcompensating, _Dean diagnosed. "She's okay," Sam answered, "seems like a nice woman . . . why?"

Dean blinked once.

"Oh, c'mon, Dean," Sam groaned, "you're not gonna start up with this again, are you?"

"You know me, little brother. Can't help myself!" Dean's smile faded. "But seriously, Sam, think about it. You shouldn't . . . be alone, you know." As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew Sam wasn't going to like them; so far they had managed to not talk about _it _very often, and he preferred to keep it that way.

Sam's face twisted, gripping the steering wheel harder and focusing on the long stretch of road before him, dark pavement winding through the hills. "You mean . . . when you die."

Dean swallowed, then nodded once."Yeah," he said, his voice gruff.

"I told you, Dean," Sam said, "I'm _going _to find a way to get you out of this, you're not dying. Not yet. But would it kill you---" he winced at the unintentional pun "---to help me out a little? I mean, I don't even know where to begin here . . . "

Dean looked away, unconsciously tapping his fingers on the armrest; the words of the Crossroads Demon still rang in his head, the loneliness and desparation he felt when Sam was dead were still in him._ No, it wouldn't kill me, Sam, _he thought to himself, _but it would kill _you. _And I'd rather burn in Hell than go through that again. _He knew Sam hated him for that, and he couldn't blame him, if their positions were reversed he'd be seething and ranting about it constantly; his eyes darted over to Sam, who had scoffed angrily and was now staring at the road again, apparently done with the conversation. _I'm sorry, Sam._

The rest of the drive was going to be a tense one, he could tell, Sam certainly didn't seem in the mood to say anything else; when his brother got angry, he lapsed into an incredibly uncomfortable silence, stewing in his own misery till he decided he was going to let it go. Dean grumbled to himself, too low for Sam to hear and get all pissed off; what did Sam expect him to do anyway? He knew damn well Dean couldn't just get out of the deal and let Sam die! _You would do the same for me. _But even deeper inside, a part of Dean wondered if that was true, if Sam really _would _give it all up for him, like he was willing to do for his little brother. _I hope not, _he admitted. It had been difficult enough dealing with his father's sacrifice, if he ever had to go through that knowing Sam was . . . he shuddered, the scenario was unbearable.

Unable to stand the silence any longer, he leaned forward and flipped on the tape player, relaxing instantly as music filled the Impala:

_Just about a year ago, I set out on the road,  
Seekin' my fame and fortune, lookin' for a pot of gold.  
Things got bad, and things got worse, I guess you know the tune  
Oh, lord . . . stuck in Lodi again . . ._

Sam shot a look to Dean, his tiny eyes narrowing slightly, but he made no move to turn the music off so Dean remained still. Dean closed his eyes, allowing the back-country sounds of CCR to lure him into his own world.

_Rode in on a Greyhound, I'll be walkin' out if I go.  
I was just passin' through, must be seven months or more  
Ran out of time and money, looks like they took my friend  
Oh, lord . . . I'm stuck in Lodi again . . ._

_"_Someday I'm gonna force you to listen to _my _music," Sam threatened, "I thought the driver got to pick the music."

"You don't count," Dean replied, without opening his eyes, "the car's mine, so I'm always the driver. Even if I'm not driving."

"Oh yeah," Sam laughed, "'cuz that makes sense."

"Makes sense to me."

"It would."

Dean smiled, opening his wide eyes and focusing them on Sam, who had visibly relaxed, his knuckles were no longer white as he gripped the thin steering wheel; Dean's eyes fell to Sam's leg, it was impossible to tell by the way he was sitting, but he knew that the stab wound was still incredibly sore. He also knew Sam would never let it affect him in the fight with Gein.

Sighing, he flexed his hand, testing the strength it had and managed to let out only a small grunt when a stab of pain shot up from his palm to his elbow; there was no he could grip a weapon, or throw a decent punch, and the thought frustrated him.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam asked, noticing the way Dean was testing himself.

"It'll be fine, Sam," Dean answered, "don't worry, I got your back."

"Yeah, I know you do."

Dean yawned, blinking blearily and glaring down at his watch that still read 7:34 a.m., he hated mornings. "I just can't wait to get this over with," he muttered, "I'm gonna sleep for a friggin' week!"

_If I only had a dollar, for every song I've sung  
Everytime I've had to play, while people sat there drunk  
You know, I'd catch the next train back to where I live.  
Oh, lord . . . I'm stuck in Lodi again  
Oh, lord . . . I'm stuck in Lodi again . . ._

----------

Natasha ran her fingers through her long hair and let out a disgruntled sigh, staring at the bright computer screen so hard her forehead began to ache; she had only been at work for a little over an hour, but it already felt like she should be going home. She had five new patients to process in, and the computer was being sluggish as usual so it was going to take at least twice as long; her fingers and wrists ached from hovering over the keyboard, and her eyes had begun to hurt. Muttering a quiet profanity, she suddenly pushed away from the desk and walked over to the coffee-maker, still only half-awake; she poured herself a mug and filled it with extra cream and sugar, savoring the jolt she felt when she sipped it and allowed the hot liquid to run down her throat.

The sound of something metal falling on the floor out in the hallway caused her to jump in fear, despite knowing that there were numerous guards posted all over the institute; timidly, she peeked around the door of the office and into the hall, scanning it quickly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a police officer standing near the doorway---

"Hey," she called, getting his attention, "did you hear that?"

The officer shrugged. "Figured you dropped something, that's all."

Natasha rolled her eyes, then whirled around and walked back into the office, flipping on the main light while she was at it---she had only turned on a small lamp before, trying to preserve her sensitive eyes. God, she hated being up early. Stifling a yawn, she sat back down and began typing away once more, almost missing the muffled _"hmph!"_ that came from the hallway and the thud that followed. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood up, a chill ran through her slender frame, she wanted to look but somehow couldn't convince herself to move, it was as if she had no control over her own body. _Come on, Nat . . . get UP. _Clenching her jaw, she pressed her hands to the desk and used them as leverage to stand, on trembling legs, she made her way over to the door again and looked over in the direction where the guard had been standing.

And was now laying. In a pool of his own dark blood.

Natasha screamed as she ran forward and slid to her knees by the man, his throat had been sliced nearly down to the bone, his mouth was frozen in a silent scream and his eyes were circles, staring at the ceiling without seeing.

"Oh my god . . . oh m-my god . . . " Natasha stumbled over her words, frantically trying to cover the wound with her hands, but knowing that she was already too late. She could scream for help, but she knew there was no one else on the first floor of the building, early in the morning there was rarely anyone around; so instead she forced herself up again and ran back to get to the phone, tears streaming down her face, leaving streaks in her makeup.

She slid on the guard's blood and nearly crashed to the floor, but managed to grasp onto the wall railing and catch herself in order to race into the office; the phone was slippery in her bloody hands, and for some reason the dial tone sounded eerie and terrifying. But not as terrifying as the dead quiet that followed, as the line was suddenly gone. Her shaking grew more fierce, so much that she couldn't hold on and dropped the phone onto the desk with a loud ring; the only sounds in the room---droplets of blood falling to the floor, leaving tiny red dots all around her feet, her harsh breathing in-and-out, nearly hyperventilating. An instinct she didn't even know she had began to take over, and she snatched open the desk drawer to yank out a pair of scissors, feeling her adrenaline pumping and her heart racing; she hurried out of the office, determined to walk over to the entrance and pull the fire alarm, but also defend herself if she had to.

The entire building seemed to be quiet, the only noise was the echo of her footsteps as she walked briskly across the room, her eyes looking around, searching for her would-be attacker; she just _had _to stop him before he killed another innocent woman, so she forced her legs to keep moving despite the want to just curl up in a dark corner and hide.

A footstep sounded behind her and she screamed feebly, spinning around with the scissors outstretched---only to see that she was still alone.

Someone's deep laugh came from her right, and again she gasped, cold sweat running down from her brow and staining the collar of her shirt. "Who's there?" she cried.

Silence.

"Damn it, come out here!" Natasha demanded in a shrill voice.

More silence. Then . . .

"I'm here, Natasha."

The voice came from the shadows of the half-open mop closet, and the pair of eyes Natasha saw gazing at her forced her into immobility again; the scissors dropped the floor, and before she could even open her mouth to scream, Gein lunged out of the closet and straight to her.

Darkness followed . . .


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thank you, Mary T., for being the greatest beta ever:)**

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_**Chapter 10**_

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"Jesus Christ," Sam muttered as he pulled into the parking lot of the institute, "we're too late." The lot was surrounded with police cars flashing their lights, officers going in and out of the building; a couple of paramedics wheeled out a stretcher with a sheet draped over it, they were followed by a young man and an older woman, both wore shocked expressions on their pale faces.

"Son of a bitch," Dean sighed, lifting his head from the window.

A cop stepped out from behind one of the vehicles and held up his hands to signal Sam to stop, he complied, then rolled down his window and looked up at the man curiously: "What's going on, Officer?" he asked, "we were coming to visit our grandma---"

"This is a crime scene, son," the officer replied, "I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

Sam feigned surprise. "What happened?"

The cop hesitated, obviously trying to decide how much he should tell the stranger, but after a moment he relented: "There's been another attack. One of the nurse's is missing."

"That's horrible." Sam shook his head, looking down at his lap for a second. "Well, I hope you find her . . . we'll be on our way now." With that, he shifted gears and backed out, then tore off down the road; Dean glanced over at him.

"Back to the cabin?" he assumed.

"It's the only place I can think of," Sam answered, "it's where he took you."

"Doesn't seem like he'd be stupid enough to do that again though," Dean countered, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully.

"Well, he was stupid enough to come out of hiding already."

Dean nodded. "True. He should've known we'd be right on his tail."

"Who knows?" Sam said, "maybe we'll get lucky for once." He laughed when Dean scoffed at his words. Winchester luck. Yeah right. "It could happen," he added, his voice sounding innocent and naive.

"Sure it could," Dean said, grinning like a fool, "and I could sell the Impala for a Mustang!" He patted the pale dashboard of his beloved car fondly; most people would consider a brand new Mustang GT a prize, but he would take his 31-year-old baby anyday over the crappy, aluminum "cars" of today.

"Worth a look, don't you think?"

Dean shrugged. "We've gotta try."

-----

Natasha's screams and pleads for help only excited Gein further as he ran the sharp blade down her arm, leaving behind a trail of blood that trickled down onto her white jacket; she whimpered pitifully, her breaths coming out in short gasps as he was unable to calm down, nearly hyperventilating. The knife cut into her skin and ripped it open, they were only shallow cuts, but she cried out in pain each time, her trembling only made it worse, deepening the cuts. She was tied to a wooden chair securely, ropes wrapped around her wrists and ankles; she didn't recognize the place, but could tell it was a small room with wood walls and blood-stained floors. When she glanced outside, she saw the sun was high. She had been taken early in the morning.

"Please," she whispered, hot tears stinging her eyes, "let me go."

"No, no, no," Gein sighed, "I can't do that." The light from the window flickered in his eye when he looked up at her. Natasha shivered. "I have to punish you."

"I haven't _done _anything!" Natasha sobbed.

"Oh, but you _have_." He placed the knife against Natasha's wet cheek and gently trailed the elegant line of her jaw, all the way down her neck and to her breast; he stuck the knife between two of the buttons and yanked on it, sending one of them flying up and opening her shirt. "Remember the baby you killed?" he continued, "never even gave it a second thought, did you? You only think about yourself . . . "

"Wh-what?" Natasha stuttered, "how did you---?"

"It is the Lord's will," Gein interrupted her, "that I punish you for your sins." Silently, he dug the blade in till it cut the thin skin right beneath her collarbone, she gasped in pain, struggling against her restraints.

"You're insane," she muttered, her voice cracking with fear and pain.

Gein chuckled. "That's what they said about Jesus."

"Yeah, and look what they did to him!"

She never saw it coming, but felt it and heard it a moment later when his large hand snapped up and struck her on the cheek, leaving behind a red imprint; it stung fiercely, like a bad bee sting only larger, and she squeezed her eyes shut to try to block it out. But in only a second, Gein had grasped her jaw fiercely and her eyes flew open, crying out when his face was mere inches from her's; she could smell his breath that reeked of smoke and some other bitter scent . . . _oh god, _her thought came against her well. _ . . . He smells of blood._

"I'm not going to kill you quickly, you know," Gein said, his voice was soft but still chilling, "no, no . . . it will be slow. Just like that baby's death was when you let them poison it!" He pushed her away and jumped to his feet, beginning to pace the length of the tiny room, his breaths coming in shorter and shorter, harsh bursts. "I should burn you alive!" he screamed, stopping and pointing at her with an unwavering finger, "then you would know your child's pain. Your skin will melt away . . . and I'll make sure you stay alive long enough to _feel _it."

"No . . . "

"Yes!" Gein laughed as he reached over and grabbed a small, metal can, then tipped it over and poured a small bit of a nasty-smelling liquid onto her lap; Natasha felt the horror in her increase, getting worse and worse. _Gasoline. _Gein produced a black lighter from deep within his coat pocket and held it up for her to see, then he flicked his thumb and a small flame shot out; Natasha shrieked, her mind abandoning all thoughts and focusing completely on the agony that was to come. Her yelling grew louder as he walked toward her, grinning disgustingly---

"Back off, Gein!!!"

Sam's shout echoed around the room in unison as Dean kicked down the rickety door, a powerful .45 braced between his hands; simultaneously, Gein dropped the lighter onto Natasha's lap and it burst into flame as she screamed helplessly. The brothers eyes widened in horror, but didn't let it phase them for long as Sam instinctively ran to the suffering girl and Dean flattened Gein with a bullet to the chest then raced to him before he could recover. But he wasn't quick enough, and grunted as his breath leapt from him, Gein having placed his boots right to his chest and kicking him back.

"You're gonna be okay," Sam assured the girl, swiftly patting down the flames with his jacket, though not in time to prevent her legs and stomach from being horribly burned. She sobbed as he untied her hands and ankles and scooped her out of the chair, sparing Dean a look just as his brother was thrown into a wall and slid to the floor, moaning.

"Dean?"

"I'm fine. Get her out of here!" Dean snapped.

Reluctantly, Sam obeyed his brother's order and fled the building, holding Natasha close; Dean struggled to his feet in time to deliver a blow to Gein's stomach, then brought his elbow down on his back, knocking him down to his knees. Dean was unrelenting in his attack, immediately kicking Gein in the face with his heavy, leather boot and forcing him onto his back; but Gein was far from defeated, he swung his legs around in a windmill and smacked Dean across the face, spinning him around and slamming him against the wall. Dean grunted his discomfort, pushing his back to the wall as a way of keeping himself upright, then prepared for another blow, hardeing his stomach just as Gein dug his fist deep into it. It had the desired effect. The punch having barely phased him, Dean jumped forward, wrapping his hands around Gein's neck and taking both of them to the floor.

Outside, Sam placed Natasha in the backseat of the Impala and covered up her burns the best he could before dialing 911, hastily giving them directions, and then dashing back inside, hoping the fight would be over---or at least moved elsewhere---before help arrived. His long legs carried him into the tiny cabin quickly, arriving just as Dean tackled Gein, choking him; the older brother glanced over his shoulder, then shouted:

"Sam, get the lighter!"

Speed was vital so Sam dove around Dean and grasped the fallen lighter, but he was still too slow, and Gein managed to wrestle Dean off him, gaining the upperhand; he was about to slam his fist into Dean's face when Sam snapped his leg forward and kicked him in the temple. "Dean," he said, urgently, "we've gotta get out of here. I had to call the cops."

Dean's eyes turned into perfect circles. "Sam---"

"I had to," Sam cut him off, throwing a punch into Gein's windpipe and then taking one to his stomach and stumbling back. "She needs help," he gasped.

"So do you," Gein snarked, pulling a shiny object from his back pocket and lunging forward; Sam side-stepped the vicious thrust and wrapped his large hands around Gein's wrist, squeezing and twisting it around painfully.He gripped Gein's other arm and held it to steady himself as he planted his heel into his enemy's stomach and pushed as hard as he could, sending Gein flying through the flimsy wall and out onto the ground, lightly covered by snow. Sam and Dean were right behind him as Gein landed on the ground and a tiny cloud of white burst up around him; he wasn't subdued for long, and jumped back onto his feet with a mad flash in his eyes, then spun around and fled in the direction of the forest behind the cabin. Dean raised his .45 and slowly squeezed the trigger with the pad of his finger, making sure he had lined up the shot properly; the round found it's target in the middle of Gein's back, leaving behind in it's place a tiny hole that began bleeding dark---almost black---blood.

"That's just nasty," Dean muttered as he took off running alongside Sam; just as he flicked on his own lighter and held it over Gein, the man rolled around onto his back and threw his pocket knife into the air. It buried itself an inch into Dean's stomach, forcing him to drop the lighter and watch it fall uselessly as he staggered and dropped to his knees, placing his hand over the wound that was gushing blood.

Instinctively, Sam grasped his brother to hold him up while snatching the .45 and blasting Gein right in the forehead, blood and brains shot up and covered Sam, nearly making him gag as Gein screamed and fell over. Not hesitating the slightest bit, Sam picked up the lighter and threw onto Gein---but his aim was off as Gein swung and knocked his legs out from under him---still, the flames ignited and began to eat away at Gein's pants. He screamed his fear and agony and crawled away, kicking against the ground and frantically throwing snow on the flames; the smell of burning, rotted flesh filled the air and Sam and Dean's nostrils, causing them to gag and lean over, pressing their hands to their stomachs.

"This isn't over!" Gein spat, his voice was sharp as a blade and sent chills down Sam's spine; Gein scooped up a handful of fluffy snow and threw it onto the blaze on his legs as Sam dropped down to reach for the lighter again. His fingers were within inches of the shining object when Gein's boot connected with his wrist, snapping the fragile bones within; the sound of his brother's short cry of pain brought Dean out of the fog of his pain and the stink of Gein's flesh, and he pushed himself forward, back into the fight. Sam cradled his wrist and rolled aside, giving Dean room to pin Gein down temporarily and land a few solid punches to his face and throat; Gein growled, striking upward and digging his fingers into the stab wound, the sharp pain nauseated Dean and forced the breath from his lungs. Sam pushed Dean away and took over, but he was too late and Gein had already recovered, he swung and punched Sam in the nose, splattering blood all over his dirty knuckles and sending Sam tumbling down to the ground. Before either brother could strike, Gein had found his way back to his feet and taken up a strong stance, his legs shoulder-width apart and slightly bent, his shoulders rounded, fists clenched---eyes gleaming with excitement.

Sam took a step back, then swung his leg around in a fankick, his foot smacking across Gein's jaw; Dean bent over and grabbed the lighter as Sam moved, then lunged at Gein, trying to catch his sleeve with the tiny flame. Gein pushed him aside, then backhanded Sam and forced him away by punching him in the gut three times, then viciously kicking him on the side of the knee; Sam cried out as his knee was wrenched to an awkward angle and gave out beneath him, and Dean fell his heart twist at the sight of his little brother in pain. He yelled angrily and raced toward Gein, his hands outstretched and thumbs poised to gouge out Gein's eyes; their bodies slammed into each other and Dean's momentum carried them over to a tree, where he pinned Gein. Trembling from exertion, he pressed harder and harder till he felt the soft, wetness of Gein's eyaballs against his dry thumbs; gritting his teeth, he combated Gein's attempts to stop him and pushed on, gradually stabbing deeper. Blood spurted out and all over his face, Gein struggled against the whole time, growling and screaming angrily, full of pain; Dean felt sick as the eyeball squished against his thumbs and the blood and clear liquid ran down his hand.

Gein brought his knee up and hit Dean in the groin, catching the young man off-guard; he gasped feebly and released his hold on Gein, but Sam already had his back and ran forward to take his place. He punched Gein in the jaw, then the nose, the eye; he slammed his forearm into his throat, hit him in the stomach over and over again, then dug his fist in and pushed up so the blow went under Gein's ribs and completely stole the breath from him. Absent-mindedly, Sam thought: _Do zombies need to breathe? _before Gein planted his hands on either side of Sam's shoulder and blindly struck out, managing to lash out with a decent head-butt and temporarily daze him. But Gein was at a severe disadvantage, completely blinded by Dean's attack and in terrible pain from his numerous injuries; Dean pulled himself from the ground and half-crawled, half-walked to Gein, tackling him by wrapping his arms around Gein's legs and flinging him down. He looked over to Sam anxiously, relieved to see him with the lighter once again, working at trying to get to catch aflame; it was dripping wet and the cold air kept extinguishing anything he could get.

"Damn it," Dean muttered, quietly; beneath him, Gein shifted, and he returned the move with a fierce punch to the mouth, cutting his hand on the teeth but also knocking a few of them out in the process. Even burned, beaten and maimed, Gein still struggled against him, his strength having been taxed but not defeated;

"Got it!" Sam spoke as he hurried over, cradling the lighter.

Sirens sounded from the cabin, drawing the attention of both boys; Dean's mouth fell open, he shook his head in bewilderment: "It took us over an hour to drive up here! How'd they get here so fast!?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe there's a station around here somewhere," he offered.

"Fuck." Dean looked around. "We can't light him up here, they'll hear us!"

Sam growled, then slapped the lighter shut and gripped Gein's arms: "Get up!" Dean jumped off as Sam yanked and forced Gein to his feet, his eyes darted back and forth between the cops surrounding the Impala and their prisoner. No ambulance had arrived yet. _Hospital's probably far away, _he thought with regret, hoping Natasha would hang on long enough to make it.

"Let's go, Dean," Sam sighed, holding Gein's arm behind his back and pushing him into the dense forest.

Dean snarled, falling into step beside Sam and keeping his eyes pinned on Gein, who was fighting back but with very little success; Sam held tight to Gein's wrists, and Dean pressed his gun to the small of his back, every now and then looking back to make sure they hadn't been spotted. He wondered how far they would have to walk before they could safely set Gein on fire and his screams wouldn't reach the officers; the thought alone was enough to make him uncomfortable, imagining Gein laying on the cold ground as his flesh was burned away and death slowly came over him.

They walked and walked, it felt like hours but Dean suspected it had only been able fifteen minutes, he figured they had gone about a mile away from the cabin; abruptly, Sam stopped and threw Gein down, then reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced the lighter. He took a deep breath, slid his thumb over the raised edge, and threw it down on Gein's chest as he tried to stand up; Dean kicked him beneath the jaw, knocking him back to the soggy earth as the crackling flames spread across Gein's torso, licking at his face and burning through his clothes. He batted at the flames but it did no good, only fanned them and caused them to spread faster; in no time his limbs were engulfed, he was coughing wildly on the smoke, the life---or afterlife---draining from his cold eyes.

Sam covered his nose and mouth with his hand, coughing harshly; Dean looked away as Gein's skin blistered and burst open, peeling away. It didn't escape either brother that their own mother had suffered the same, horrible fate.

It felt like it took forever before Gein finally stopped crying and breathed his last and went completely limp, then they waited till all the flesh had been eaten off his bones and there was nothing but bones left; they put out the fire before it could catch onto any trees or bushes, then buried the body in a shallow grave and turned and headed back to the cabin. Neither spoke. Sam's knee throbbed, Dean's side felt like it was on fire, but neither noticed. They were panting, exhausted, and sickened by what they had been forced to do---no matter how much Gein had deserved it.

By the time they got back to the cabin, an ambulance had arrived and they were loading up Natasha, who was conscious, an IV attached to her arm; a police officer who was holding a clipboard turned, his face suspicious. "Who are you?" he demanded, dropping his arms and approaching them rapidly; then he noticed their appearances and his face became a mask of confusion and concern. "What happened to you?"

"How's the girl?" Sam asked, surprised by how tired he sounded.

The officer paused. "How did you know?"

"We're the ones who found her," Dean replied, "my brother . . . he called for help. His name is Scott, I'm Daniel . . . Wilson."

"I'm Lieutenant Porter. Let me see some I.D.," the officer said.

"It's in my car---" Dean gestured to the Impala. "Can I . . . ?"

"Yeah, go on." Porter paused. "You boys look like you need to get checked out by the medics. Were you attacked, too?"

"We got here while he was still attacking Natasha," Sam explained, as Dean went to the car. "He roughed us up a bit. We chased him off that way---" he gestured vaguely toward the woods "---is she gonna be okay?"

Porter nodded. "Looks like it. Third degree burns, but we got here in time," he said, "if she doesn't develop an infection she shouldn't have any longterm effects other than scars."

"That's good to hear."

Dean returned holding their fake I.D.'s, that seemed to satisfy Porter, who then confirmed with Natasha that they had rescued her; she watched them with haunted, terrified eyes, but nodded her understand. She wouldn't tell the police what she saw. They wouldn't believe her anyway. In a few minutes, the paramedics slammed the doors of the ambulance shut and Sam and Dean watched them drive away, having refused treatment themselves. They gave a report, and a phone number that would never reach them, then were released to go home.

They sat down in the Impala, breathing in her scent and relaxing, she was always their home, and she felt so comfortable and loving compared to the cold, outside world. Sam assured Dean his knee wasn't too bad, just twisted, not torn; and Dean tried to lay Sam's fears at rest by allowing him to fuss and bandage up the stab wound in his side. Then Sam slid across the seat and took over the steering wheel, noticing how Dean's eyelids fluttered and he slumped, clearly exhausted, his injuries and the day's events taking their toll. But he was alive. And that was the most important thing.

Letting out a quiet, pleased sigh, Sam reached over and patted Dean's thigh before starting the car and driving off; he smiled with contentment when he felt Dean's hand rest on his shoulder and squeeze.

"You okay?" Dean yawned, his voice heavy.

Sam's smile grew. "Yeah, Dean . . . I'm fine." He leaned over and flipped on the tape player, laughing when Dean grinned sleepily. "Just . . . this . . . once," he said, firmly.

"Whatever, dude." Dean turned up the music before he leaned back and closed his eyes, and even Sam allowed himself to enjoy the classic rock he had listened to all his life:

_And if I say to you tomorrow_

_Take my hand, child, come with me_

_It's to a castle I will take you_

_Where what's to be, they say will be_

_Catch the wind, see us spin_

_Sail away, leave today_

_Way up high in the sky_

_But the wind won't blow_

_You really shouldn't go_

_It only goes to show_

_That you will be mine_

_By takin' our time . . . ooh! _


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: Well, here it is---the final chapter! Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing, it really means so much to me. And a HUGE thank you to Mary T., for being such an awesome beta and pushing me through those writer's blocks that I encounter so often. Luv you, girl:)**

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_**Chapter 11**_

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Night had fallen. The moon's light cast a glow over the rolling hills outside Grace's house, and thick clouds slowly moved in the sky, growing darker and larger as time went by; it smelled like rain, it felt like rain, it was a sure thing that rain would come. And soon. And then, just as the old, black Impala pulled into the driveway, the sky opened up and drops of rain began to bead up on her waxed body and moisten the ground; Sam opened the passenger's side door and gripped Dean's arms, lifting him out of the car with very little help from his brother. Dean muttered some kind of protest, but Sam just shrugged it off and continued aiding him up to the front door, where Grace had appeared. Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating the brothers as they trekked up the frontyard, arms wrapped around one another; Grace hurried forward, sneaking an arm around Dean's back in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on Sam. Too tired to fight back, Dean relaxed against her, using her as leverage to pull himself up the steps and stumble into the quiet, warm house, where the only sound was the gentle rain on the rooftop.

The sound lured Dean to sleep once he had laid down, and in no time his breathing had evened out and was deep, soothing; Grace placed her hand on the small of Sam's back and guided him to the guest bedroom, noting the dull look in his eyes and the shortness of breath, sure signs of exhaustion. He plopped down on the bed, bouncing slightly on the supple mattress; wordlessly, Grace knelt on the floor and took off his mud-caked boots, tossing them aside without a care, then slipped off his socks and helped him out of his wet jacket. Still completely silent, Sam scooted back on the bed and Grace sat down next to him, ignoring her trembling fingers as she unbuttoned his shirt; he stared at her, comprehension in his eyes but still "out of it", off in his own world. She imagined he had been through hell all day, trying to rescue Natasha---she wondered if the girl had survived---and battling Gein. _He must be gone, _she thought to herself, _they never would've given up till he was dead._

Not even asking, she left and returned with a glass of water and a few Aspirin, having noticed the way Sam favored his one knee and rubbed it gingerly when he thought she wasn't looking; as he swallowed the pills, she placed her hands on either side of his knee and pressed gently, feeling for swelling and trying to figure out just what was wrong with it. Sam instinctively pulled away from the pain, but restrained himself and allowed her to continue; she quickly figured out that it was twisted, most likely badly sprained, but there didn't seem to be any torn muscles. She didn't know what had happened to it, but she guessed that Sam was very lucky the damage wasn't worse.

Patting Sam's shoulder, she rose to leave the room, but he stopped her by grabbing her wrist; their eyes met, his were full of gratitude, she acknowledged them by dipping her head slightly and running her fingers through his thick hair. He closed his eyes, lying back down and resting his head on the soft pillow; Grace stared down at him for a moment, then walked through the doorway and into the other room, checking on Dean before heading upstairs and crawling into her own bed. She fell asleep to the sounds of the deep, rolling thunder and the pitter-patter of the rain.

-----

Dean grimaced and let out a tiny groan as Grace's nimble fingers stitched up the minor wound in his abdomen; luckily, it wasn't too deep and would heal in time, but it still hurt like hell and in no time sweat that had been beading up at his browline was running down his flushed face. He lay stretched out across the couch, one arm draped over his eyes to hide the pain shown in them as Grace knelt on the floor and worked as quickly as she could; Sam leaned against the wall over by the doorway to the living room, watching them without making a sound.

"Almost done," Grace said, softly; finishing off the last stitch and trying to ignore his pained grunt, the process had been agonizingly slow and it hurt her everytime she had to hurt him. She hadn't even realized she started to care so much about the brothers. "You really shouldn't have let this go all night."

"It wasn't even bleeding till this morning," Dean offered, his voice more of a grunt.

"Uh-huh."

Dean fidgeted uncomfortably when Grace yanked as gently as she could to finish, then snipped the thread with a tiny pair of scissors; he nodded his thanks to you, not trusting his voice enough to attempt to speak. Grace smiled understandingly, patting his hand and standing up, carrying away the pan full of bloody water and the supplies she had used to patch both boys up; they had done a half-assed job of it while still in the Impala, but she insisted on making sure they were okay.

"How're you feeling, Sam?" she asked, pausing when she reached the younger brother.

"Sore," Sam admitted, truthfully. "It'll take a little while before I'm running anywhere. But it's nothing serious." 

"You two took one hell of a beating."

Sam smirked. "That's how it goes sometimes." He shrugged. "A lot of the time, I guess."

"Well, Dean will be fine," Grace said, beginning to walk toward the bathroom, Sam at her side, "as long as you two _take it easy. _Something that seems like torture for you guys."

"We don't like sitting around," Sam said, "and we can't afford to." He thought of Dean's face plastered over WANTED papers, and Agent Hendrickson sneering down at them as he swore to see them rot behind bars. "I'm afraid we're gonna have to run, the cops are probably on the look out already for Daniel and Scott, seeing as how there was a dead body in our motel room."

Grace frowned. "What about those spirits you saw at Mendota?" she questioned, "are you just going to . . . leave them there?"

"They never tried to hurt us," Sam explained, "I think they were trying to warn us. Help us find Gein in the only way they could. They wanted revenge, justice for their murders." He folded his arms over his chest, hesitating for a moment and rubbing his aching wrist tenderly. "I doubt they'll hurt anyone, they've most likely moved on. But if you have any problems, you know you can call us."

"I---" Grace stopped, taking a moment. "I can't even begin to tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done. You two . . . you're really amazing." She laughed when Sam's face flushed a light shade of pink, and he ducked his head. "No, seriously. Thank you," she added, touching his sleeve with her free hand.

"I'm glad we could help," Sam said, dropping his hand and placing it over her's on his arm, " . . . and that you're okay."

His touch brought a chill to her body but also an intense heat, her eyes dropped down to stare at his long fingers touching the back of her small hand; he had large, rough hands with white scars across the skin and hard callouses on his palms. They were powerful. She knew they could be used as weapons, but she also suspected they could be used incredibly gently; she imagined the feel of them running down her body and caressing her face----

Flushing awkwardly, she pulled away from his touch. "Sam, I---" her voice broke suspiciously, and she struggled to get it under control. "Um, I've been meaning to ask you . . . when you were fighting Gein---after the accident---I saw a woman in the forest. She was watching us."

Sam frowned, twisting his head slightly in confusion. "A woman? What'd she look like?"

Grace closed her eyes momentarily, remembering the face, the way she held herself and gazed upon the fight like it was a form of entertainment to her. "She had long, blonde hair," she recalled, "and she was tall . . . thin. Pretty." She looked up when Sam made an angry grunt and abruptly turned around, the muscles in his back tensed and released as he took in deep breaths, visibly upset. "Sam?"

" . . . Ruby," the word was uttered so softly, and threateningly, Grace almost didn't hear.

"Who's Ruby?" she asked.

Sam sighed, turning back to face her, he put his hands on her arms, squeezing slightly in reassurance. "Don't worry about it," he said, "and please, don't tell Dean. I'll . . . uh, I'll take care of it."

"What 'it'?" Grace shoved his hands down. "Sam, what is going on? Who is she?"

"I said I'll take care of it!" Sam snapped, his voice tense but not harsh.

"Well, that's not good enough!" Grace hissed, glancing across the room to where Dean was sleeping on the couch, making sure they hadn't disturbed him. "I've been through hell with you, I think I deserve some honesty."

"This doesn't have anything to do with you," Sam replied, "or this case, okay? This is about me." He took a step toward the door, but was unable to hide the flinch that flickered over his face when his knee cried out for rest; Grace's thin brows raised, but despite her anger and frustration, she still felt a twinge of pain at seeing him suffer.

"You're hurt," she said, her voice gentler, "don't you think you should wait this out a day or two? Whatever 'this' is?"

"Ruby's not going to hurt me," Sam said, confidently, as he shouldered into his jacket. "I'll be back in a little while. Tell Dean---" he paused, looking over Grace's shoulder to his brother "---tell him I went out to look around the institute one more time. He'll be pissed that I went alone, but he'll believe it." With those words, he opened the door and stepped outside, walking briskly to the Impala as Grace watched him through the screen door, trying to ignore how the cold air felt against her skin and the sickening, sinking feeling in her gut.

-----

Metallica blared from the cassette player in the car as Sam raced down the two-lane road, gripping the steering wheel with one hand while cradling his broken wrist to his chest; Grace's revelation that Ruby had been spying on him didn't exactly come as a surprise---he knew she had to be watching him---but it that didn't lessen his anger any. He was sick of being pulled around by some demon, acting like a puppet, it was time she told him just what the hell she expected of him already.

_It's for Dean, _he reminded himself, _just keep thinking of him. _

But that thought did little to ease his fears. What if Ruby wanted him to hurt someone? What if she wanted him to hurt Grace? Or let Peter go without punishment? What if she had been working alongside Peter the whole time? Crying out in frustration, his brought his fist down on the dashboard while the car steered itself down a long, straight stretch of road.

"What do you _want _from me!?" he shouted.

He'd thought all his troubles concerning demons interested in him had died along with Azazel, that he could finally forget about that troubling revelation his father had given Dean over a year ago and move on with his life, focusing on hunting and saving Dean rather than worrying about some hidden agenda. What could he possibly have that made Ruby so interested in him anyway? His powers were gone, he hadn't had any visions or been able to move any dressers since Dean killed Azazel months ago. He had nothing to offer her.

An open field ahead showed itself to be a good meeting place for him, somewhere that no one would see the two of them, or hear them; he knew she would be able to find him, she seemed to have the ability to show up out of nowhere if she so desired. Muscles flexing with anticipation, he pulled the Impala off to the side of the road and stepped outside, instantly shivering and pulling his coat tighter around him. He slammed the door of the Impala shut, shaking the entire car, then leaned against it and folded his arms, glaring around the open field, waiting for her to appear. A minute passed. Then another. Growing impatient, he took a deep breath and shouted, his voice carrying over the countryside: "Ruby! Where the hell are you!?"

"Don't be such a drama queen, Sam. I'm right here."

He whirled around to snarl at Ruby, who appeared unimpressed by his display of anger, merely quirking one eyebrow and opening her mouth slightly in a smile. "What's the matter, Sammy-boy?" she asked, "things are going great for you! Got rid of Ed . . . you and your brother are alive . . . " The wind blew her tiny jacket back and she gripped it with her long fingers, pulling it across her chest; Sam narrowed his eyes, looking her up and down for a moment in a slow, unnerving kind of way.

"I know you were watching us," he said.

"Of course I was," Ruby replied, "I _always _watch you. How do you think I knew you were here?" She opened her arms, palms up, and gestured around the field. "Now---what do you want?"

"You said there was something I needed to do. Tell me what it is."

"So _anxious,"_ Ruby said, stepping forward so she was close to Sam, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin and his breath in her face. "I like it," her voice jumped in surprise on the last word when Sam pushed him away from her, causing her to stumble back a few steps, her gray-blue eyes flashing black for a moment as anger bubbled up within her. But she swallowed her pride when she saw the murderous look in Sam's eyes. He was done waiting. "All right," she said, gathering herself, "I'll tell you what you need to do . . . to save your brother."

-----

Dean sat up when he heard the front door open and the wind outside came whooshing in, howling painfully; a second later, Sam's silhouette appeared in the doorway, dripping wet and out of breath. Dean's face contracted in a frown and he pushed himself off the couch to hurry over to his younger brother, gripping Sam's shoulders with his hands, and holding his gaze: "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" he demanded, fear spiking through his heart.

" . . . I'm fine, Dean." Sam's voice was dull, tired. He gently took Dean's hands and lowered them. "I just, uh, need to get some rest."

It was perfectly valid excuse, Dean knew, Sam _was _exhausted. Still . . . something wasn't right. But Sam wasn't willing to stick around and let him figure it out, he brushed by, heading into the dimly lit guest room; Grace stuck her head out from the kitchen, pushing her glasses up from her nose and watching Sam. She, too, seemed to notice the strain on the young man, how his shoulders were slumped and his face pale.

"What happened?" she asked, softly.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know," he sighed, "sometimes . . . " he trailed off, staring as the door shut behind Sam and he lost sight of his brother. "Sometimes he gets like this." Suddenly, his head ached. He brought his fingers up to his forehead and rubbed circles into it, trying to ease the tension induced pain that he felt there and behind his eyes; maybe Sam _was _just worn out, they had been on the job for awhile, and it felt like even longer. They'd also taken some nasty beatings lately. Those things alone gave Sam _more _than enough reason to feel a little out of sorts.

If only he could convince himself that's all it was.

In the guest room, Sam sank down onto the bed, weary and confused; Ruby's words had shocked him, and his reaction to them had shocked him even more. Could he do as she asked? Could he live with himself afterward? As a hunter he'd been forced to do many things he wasn't proud of, things that still haunted him in his dreams, but never had he . . . _You have to do this! _the voice inside him scolded, harshly. _You can't let Dean down. He's sacrificed everything for you! _

"I know," he growled, gripping the hair on each side of his head and squeezing it, he bent over and stared at the wooden floor, his thoughts and feeling conflicted. How could he sacrifice what set him apart from the things he hunted in order to save his brother? And what if Dean found out? How would he look at him? Sam knew his brother had his doubts ever since he brought him back from the dead, occasionally Sam would catch Dean looking at him with a strange expression on his face, almost as if he was looking at a stranger. _How would he look at me if he ever found out? Would he hate me?_

Of course, Sam knew that Dean would do anything to protect him---it didn't matter who he had to save, or kill, or team up with; if the price was Sam's life, Dean would go to hell and back to make sure he survived. Sam flinched as his own thoughts bombarded him. _He _is _going to hell, you idiot. And that's why you have to do this! Now quit whining about it . . . and get the job done. _Taking a steadying breath, he stood up and straightened his shirt, pulling down on it sharply, reminiscent of how his militaristic father used to act. His jaw was set in a firm line, his eyes smaller than usual, again showing his determination; he gritted his teeth and prepared himself for what he was about to do, then headed for the basement.

-----

It was damp and wet below the old house, the concrete the floor felt hard and unforgiving beneath Sam's boots as he stepped on, closer and closer to the sprawled figure of Peter, who remained tied up to the wall. It seemed as if every step Sam took echoed around the walls, ringing in his ears, he felt sure that Grace and Dean would hear him even upstairs; but it was too late to turn back now anyway, he had made up his mind. _For Dean._

Peter's eyes opened into tiny slits, darting around the dark room for a second before focusing on Sam; for a moment his eyes held only hatred, but in the next, pure fear. He opened his mouth, clearly about to scream for help, but Sam lunged forward and smacked his hand over Peter's trembling lips, cutting off his air and silencing him before a sound was uttered. Outside, a flash of lightning lit the sky and a few seconds later a thunder clap boomed over the land; Peter's eyes widened, terrified, as he stared up at Sam, who hovered over him threateningly. Sam forced himself to remain still and strong in front of the man---his enemy---but his stomach felt like it was twisted and tied into a hundred knots, he swallowed the bile that rose into his throat. _Do it now._

He reached behind his back and snatched a knife out of his belt, causing Peter to cry out from behind his firm hand; Sam ignored him as he placed the knife to the ropes binding Peter to the wall and began to saw away at them, till little by little the threads snapped and the rope fell to the floor, useless. For a moment, Sam saw hope in Peter's face, hope that he was going to let him go, that he would live; and in that moment, Sam felt sorry for him, despite all the evil he had done.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, unable to keep the tremor from his voice, "there's no other way."

Peter whimped, shaking his head fiercely. "P-p-please! God . . . don't . . . " he cried, his voice muffled.

The cry tore at every ounce of humanity Sam had in him, he felt hot tears spring into his eyes, stinging them; his entire body was shaking, not with any kind of anticipation or excitement, but with horror. Peter sobbed, his own tears rolling down his dusty cheeks and leaving streaks behind, he was hyperventilating and shaking so hard Sam was sure he would make himself ill; sure enough, Peter gagged, doubling over and falling to the floor, throwing up what little food they had given him in the past couple days. Sam watched him sorrowfully, suddenly feeling like throwing himself onto the floor and vomiting any food he had left in him as well; Peter dry heaved for a minute or so after he had puked out everything in his stomach, and soon he was just breathing heavily again, saliva stuck to his chin and his face almost buried in the small pile of vomit he had produced. He didn't seem to care. He was too busy whining and pleading in a pathetic, small voice that reminded Sam of a little child: "Please don't hurt me! I'm sorry! I'm _sorry, _I swear!"

Sam shot a worried glance up the stairs to the closed door, hoping Peter's voice wouldn't carry; again, he slapped his hand over Peter's mouth, trying his best to ignore the whimpers and sobs that still made their way out from under his hand. He tried to convince himself that Peter was a monster, no better than any wendigo or demon he had hunted before, that he deserved to die just like all the women whose deaths he had been responsible for. But none of those reasons worked. There was just one.

"He's my brother," he said, quietly, suddenly feeling calm and assured of his decision.

From the tiny window of the basement, Sam saw lightning strike outside and suddenly smoke started billowing into the air, a tree had burst into flames and was creating an orange glow; chilled to the bone, Sam couldn't restrain the shiver that start at the base of his spine and ran up to his neck. He waited.

As thunder roared again, Sam jumped forward and slit Peter's throat, jumping away to avoid getting too much blood on him as it spurted up; Peter struggled, groping mindlessly at his throat and gasping for breath. There was so much blood . . . it ran down Peter's neck and soaked his shirt, pooling up on the floor around him; it was on Sam's hands, he realized, when he lifted them and stared at them in astonishment. It felt like an eternity had passed before Peter's strength finally left him, he twitched, convulsing in his final death throes, and then he was limp, his eyes still frozen in their wide-eyed, panic-stricken expression.

Another eternity passed before Sam was able to find his voice, and even then it cracked as he called his brother's name:

_"Dean!" _

He heard worried voices from outside. Grace and Dean. There were undoubtedly trying to subdue the fire that was ravaging the old tree in her frontyard, and over the roar of the storm, they would never hear his shouts. _I need to clean this up. _He winced at his own subconscious callousness, but also knew he was right; Dean and Grace would question the pile of vomit, for sure. He had to make it look like Peter had nearly escaped. It was all self-defense. He bent his knee and placed one foot in front of the other, but the second he put weight on it his legs buckled and crumbled under him; he crashed to the floor as the tears he'd been holding back flooded him and rushed forward, uncontrollable. Heartfelt sobs wracked his body and sent shudders all through him, he was on all fours, sobbing over Peter's dead body; over the bastard who had resurrected Gein, had helped him kill those innocent women. He wasn't worth anyone's tears. And yet Sam cried.

How long Sam spent down there he would never know, but eventually the tears stopped coming and he cried without them for a time; finally, his breaths stopped coming in short wheezes and he composed himself. Methodically, without much thought, he cleaned up the vomit and disposed of the paper towels he used, then headed upstairs just as Dean came bursting through the front door, his face red and drenched in sweat, his eyes tear-filled---no doubt from all the smoke---he started to speak, but stopped abruptly and started coughing instead. Sam rushed forward, nearly bumping into Grace as she came flying in from the kitchen with a glass of water in one hand and a bucket full in the other.

"Where the hell were you?" she demanded, her voice high-pitched with anxiety.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean gasped, "we were looking for you---" he gulped the cool water, shooting Grace a thankful look.

"I---" Sam's voice cracked again, to his dismay, and the other two's immediate worry.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Peter . . . " Sam whispered, unable to finish.

Dean's eyes went dark. "Did he hurt you? What happened? Is he down there?" the words came rushing out, and then: "I'll kill the son of a bitch!"

"He's dead."

A long pause followed Sam's quiet words as Grace and Dean digested the information.

"I killed him."

-----

They burned Peter's corpse out in the woods behind Grace's house. No one would ever know of his involvement in the murders at the Mendota Institute, it was secret all three would carry to their graves; Grace still worried about the spirits of Gein's victims, but Dean once again assured her they were a phone call away if anything happened. "Or Bobby," he added, smiling.

Sam remained quiet the whole time they disposed of Peter's body, and then afterward when he helped Dean load up the Impala; he seemed to have taken the killing hard, but Dean would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't a little pleased to see it. He had worried about his brother ever since Azazel had whispered those words to him . . . _How sure are you, that what you brought back is one hundred percent, pure Sam? _The words had haunted him, and it didn't help to see his brother blowing away innocent people---even if they were possessed. But as Dean leaned against the Impala and watched Sam as he said goodbye to Grace, he couldn't help but feel sad to see his brother so disturbed.

"If you ever need anything---" Sam spoke.

"I know," Grace cut him off, "and I won't hesitate to call, believe me. Besides, I think that's the only way I'll ever convince you two to stop by for a visit!" Sam smiled, but there was no feeling behind the expression, and Grace knew it. She reached up and placed her hand on the young man's cheek. "You did what you had to do, Sam. No one thinks any less of you for it." A flicker in Sam's eyes . . . a slight change in his face . . . they were unrecognizable to Grace, but she saw them, and wondered. "I care about you, Sam," she said, her voice soft, "please . . . don't be a stranger."

Sam nodded, then stooped down and placed a sweet kiss on her cheek, muttering a hurried "Goodbye, Grace" before turning and walking down to the Impala; Dean raised his hand in a wave, and Grace returned it. Dean didn't miss the way her lips trembled and she blinked fiercely. _Another time, Grace, _he thought, sadly, _another place. But not this one. Not for you two. _He sat in the driver's seat across from Sam, giving his brother a look before turning the key and revving up the engine, then tearing out of the driveway, heedless of the dirt and gravel he kicked up. Grace stood still for a few minutes, watching the car till it disappeared from sight, trying to fight the longing ache she felt inside her as realization dawned and she knew she would never see either brother again.

Inside the car, Dean looked at Sam again, and felt his heart twist when he saw the pained expression on his face. "You know, Sam," he said, "Grace was right. You did the right thing back there, killing Peter. He didn't give you a choice."

"I know that, Dean." The tone of Sam's voice clearly told Dean to back off.

"I just . . . I don't like seeing you this way," he went on, "I mean, Peter was an evil bastard. He deserved what he got. And you couldn't just let him kill you." He paused. "Think of it this way, Sam . . . what if he'd been attacking me? You would've killed him then, and never even thought twice about it. There's no difference."

Sam swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. "I'd do anything to protect you, Dean," he said, almost too quietly for Dean to even hear. "Anything."

But Dean did hear. "I know that, Sam," he said, " . . . I know." The words gave him a horrible feeling for some reason, something he couldn't quite place; trying to forget about it, he leaned over and flipped on the tape player, drowning his thoughts in the sounds of Led Zeppelin.

He never saw Sam gazing at him out of the corner of his eye. Nor would he ever know his younger brother's thoughts as they drove through the backwoods, seeking out their next hunt.

_Anything._

**END.**


End file.
